


Bold

by Weasley_Detectives



Series: Bold [1]
Category: Brave (2012)
Genre: Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Angst, F/M, Mutual Pining, NaNoWriMo, NaNoWriMo 2016, Scottish Folklore, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Romantic Tension, scottish mythology - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-01 11:43:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 60,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8623264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weasley_Detectives/pseuds/Weasley_Detectives
Summary: ‘It’s a fool who meddles with the old stanes. Tae become enthralled by the hush of their call is to change your Fate forever - to harm them, the peril o’ yer kingdom…’When a winter storm stirs up an ancient threat and forces the clans to take refuge in Dunbroch, Merida finds she must confront her feelings for the last man in Caledonia anyone expected to win her heart. Merida x MacGuffin (Originally titled Ash 'n Bone)





	1. Only a Fool

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Emela](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emela/gifts).



**Ash ‘n Bone**

_Now is answered what you ask of the runes:_

_It is the fool who meddles with the Stanes_

  
Cold air nipped at her fingertips, sharp as knives. All around her the darkness moved like a living shadow, threaded with long fingers of mist. It was an awful place. An in-between place, neither night or day. The air tasted rotten, like mouldering leaves at the back of a graveyard, and her breath rose up in trembling little white clouds around her head. Merida shivered. Ice crystals had begun to form on her hair and eyelashes. The cold was unbearable, but worse was the panic beginning to thrum against her breastbone. She wasn’t alone in this lonely place, and the realisation chilled her to the bone more than the crunch of snow beneath her boots. Slowly, she turned, forcing herself to face the thing lurking in the har, and almost cried out in fright.

It took a second for her to adjust to the light, and another to realise the fourteen figures standing in a ring around her were not human. She stood at the centre of the stone circle - a place all too unpleasantly familiar. The old folk of Dunbroch called them the _Clanach Sluagh_ ; a foul set of jagged black teeth grinning out of the hillside, their roots buried deep in the rock. The presence of the stones seemed to thrum with energy and brought to mind an image of twisted, deformed figures- creatures frozen for all time at the very moment of their death.  
  
A rumble of thunder rolled over the land, followed by a flicker of sheet lightning as Merida counted swiftly, puzzled. There were fourteen stones in total.  
  
“There should only be thirteen,” she whispered to no one in particular.  
  
She counted again.

The fourteenth stane had been brought down five years ago by her mother, Queen Elinor of Dunbroch, crushing the demon bear Mor’du beneath its immense weight. And yet there it was before her. She recognised the standing stone by its crooked back, taller than its brothers by a good four feet. There was something strange about the inky blackness of its surface against the grey in-between world. Loneliness radiated from the megalith; of more than that, something troubled, but cunning.  
  
And angry, so very angry.  
  
Merida did not notice she was reaching for it before she snatched her hand back, as if burned.  
  
She looked down at her hand in shock. Her body had seemed to move without her permission. Even now, the giant megalith was drawing her in. It had a magnetic quality that was impossible to resist, even though every fibre of her body was now screaming at her to stop, to run, to hide. There was something human about the way it bent its crooked peak into the wind, and the air whistling through the stane’s nooks and crannies almost sounded like pleas to her ears.  
  
She crept closer, unable to resist. If she touched it.. if she touched it, would it turn to look at her? Would a face appear in those sharp angles and jagged edges? It was so much darker than its brethren and the spider-webbing of cracks across its surface pulsed like tiny veins. The whispering was growing louder. Now she was sure it wasn’t the wind, and her heart caught in her throat. Her eyes drew upward and in that moment a thunder clap split the sky, followed by a flash of lightning which drained the remaining colour from the land. Blinding light transformed shadows to ink and pale to white, and then she saw it:

Black hands like thorny branches, great maws like gaping caves. A dreadful gawping face in the rock.  
  
Merida heard herself screaming even as she woke, her bed sodden with sweat as she scrambled to untangle herself from the sheets. Her mouth was dry and her tongue felt thick and furry. There was a metallic taste at the back of her throat as she gulped down great lungfuls of air. It took her a second to realise she was still in her bedroom, safe inside the protective walls of Castle Dunbroch.  
  
“Only a nightmare,” she whispered breathlessly to herself. “Only a bad dream. Pull yourself together, you big jessie.” She forced a laugh, but it sounded hollow even to her ears.  
  
She looked around, drinking in the familiarity of her bedroom with hungry eyes. The room was lit with a cosy orange glow from the fireplace, where red embers still crackled lazily away. The castle was silent, but it was a full, peaceful kind of silence. Comforting, like an extra layer of protection to Dunbroch’s walled citadel.  
  
Merida curled her knees up to her chest, wrapping goose-pimply arms around her shins and hugging them tight. She was surrounded by people in every room, the castle full of sleeping bodies warm in their wee beds, but the loneliness of that awful place in her dream had followed her into waking, clinging like long tendrils of mist to her hair. Every alien sound - a creak of floorboards, a distant fox’s cry - became the menacing chant of the _Clanach Sluagh_.  
  
And every dark shadow became that dreadful face.  
  
Merida was a Princess of Dunbroch. She had responsibilities, duties, expectations. She was surrounded by people day and night.

But right now, she never felt so alone.


	2. Shun a woman wise in magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note- I'm Scottish/live in Scotland, so if I use any words or phrases that you don't understand, please let me know. This story is pretty heavily based on Scottish folklore, and my hikes through the highlands (which, if you ever get the chance, go- they're breathtaking). It's the one thing I was always a bit disappointed in when I first watched Brave - we have such a rich mythology, yet popular culture (even popular Scottish culture) barely touches it. The whole fic centers around the end of Brave, when Queen Elinor pushes one of the standing stones onto Mor'du. It's common legend here that terrible things happen to anyone who harms a standing stone. Many stories revolve around the idea that the old stones (or stanes) were people or gods, or could be turned into soldiers.

_'Summer of youth in which we have been  
_ _I spent with its autumn;  
_ _winter of age which overwhelms everyone,  
_ _its first months have come to me.'_

 

 

 

"Aw fer the love of- **DAD**!"  
  
Merida muttered a string of curses under her tongue as she stomped down the stone steps into the main hall. She was tugging and pulling at the strings of charms and wards she'd unwittingly walked into, now impossibly tangled in her nest of hair.  
  
The King looked up from his breakfast - a platter of assorted meats, crowned by a single piece of broccoli, which his wife had insisted upon - and blinked at his daughter.

"What? What've ah done now?"

Merida dumped herself in a chair at the table and gulped down an fork-full of scrambled eggs, before brandishing her cutlery like a weapon at her father.

"Your bloody charms are getting ridiculous. First the horseshoe above the door landed on my head this morning, THEN Maudie nearly had a heart attack when I broke one of her salt circles, and now THIS!" she gestured emphatically at her hair, where little straw characters and carved symbols were tangled up in her curls.

"Don't worry, it's not like you can tell the difference," Hubert quipped, motioning at her wild bed-head.

Beside him, Harris grinned. "Maybe you should try this new-fangled invention."

"We hear it's called a brush," said Hamish.

"Shut your gobs," Merida grumped, stabbing viciously at her breakfast. "Really Dad, don't you think this is all a bit overkill? Whole town's so paranoid and superstitious you'll soon have them carving symbols on their bums."

"Merida, watch your language," her mother scolded, while her brothers snickered. "That's no fit talk for a lady. Besides," Queen Elinor smirked, "someone might overhear you and be inspired."

"Wouldn't put it past some of that lot out there," Fergus nodded, jabbing a massive thumb out the window towards the village, his chest rumbling with a deep bellied laugh. "Look, I know it can be a nuisance, but it's our responsibility to-"

"-keep the kingdom safe from the evils o' witchcraft," Merida recited with a roll of her eyes.

Fergus grinned. "Have I said that before?"

"Only once or twice," she said.

"A day-"

"An hour-"

"Before breakfast," added the triplets.

"Oh-ho is that so! Well I think someone just happened to drag themselves out the wrong side of bed this morning. Were you up late dancin' with the ghasties or-" Fergus suddenly stopped as he took a long look at his daughter, noticing for the first time the dark bags under her eyes and pale hue of her skin. "Merida, are you feelin' okay? You're lookin' a bit peely-wally."

The Queen's eyes shot up from the pile of missives she had been studying, concern in her dark eyes. "You do look a bit pale dear." She smoothed back her daughter's wild hair from her face. "And your forehead's a wee bit clammy. Are you no feeling well?"

"I'm fine, Mum." Merida pushed her mother's hand away. "Don't change the subject, Dad, I'm serious. You're driving everyone round the bend with these charms. They don't even work! It's a bunch of nonsense."

"Don't be daft, they work just fine!" Fergus protested. He lifted the leather thong from around his neck and brandished the mummified paw of some unidentifiable creature at the breakfast table, like a child showing off their favourite toy. "I have it on good authority from Billy Briggs that this genuine Kelpie paw deters all manner of _sith_!"

"Billy Briggs?" Merida snorted. "Billy Briggs could'nae find his arse with both hands."

"M-Merida!" Elinor exclaimed, though she hadn't quite been able to keep the amusement from her voice. "That's enough of that. And.. Fergus, please don't bring that thing out at the table."

One of the hounds gave the Kelpie paw a curious sniff, then sprang back and scuttled under the table with its tail between its legs, whimpering.

Merida smirked. "See? Even Rory won't touch that and I've seen him eat Maudie's underwear."

Her brothers gagged theatrically.

With a pout, Fergus reluctantly slid the Kelpie paw back under his shirt. Then he turned to his daughter again, a little more serious. "Love, I don't know why you're getting your knickers in a twist over this. It never bothered you before."

"I just..." Merida slouched in her chair, her shoulders sagging with exhaustion. "Never mind. Just leave it."

Across the table her parents exchanged a concerned look, while their daughter poked and prodded at her now cold scrambled eggs.

Merida's temper had run out of steam and she could not be bothered carrying on the argument with her father. He was a stubborn old goat anyway. Truth be told, she wasn't entirely sure why her father's obsession had gotten to her this morning. Something was niggling at her mind, like an indistinct but familiar figure in the distance she couldn't quite make out.

Five years ago, a witch's spell had turned her mother into a bear and their family had come close to being rent apart forever. To secure her father's hatred for magic further, it had been revealed that the demon bear, Mor'du, had once been a man - a Prince, in fact - who had fallen under the same witch's curse that befell his beloved Queen Elinor. King Fergus had lost a leg to Mor'du, and came close to losing his wife and daughter too. He was a big hearted man, but his love for his family was as fierce as it was fond: there were some grudges he could not let go. And so, in the years since the Witch's Curse, Fergus and the three Lords, MacGuffin, Macintosh and Dingwall, had banned all practise of witchcraft and sorcery in the kingdom. Serious penalties had been spoken off, but by in large it had been decreed that anyone caught conjuring or exercising witchcraft was to be exiled from their town or village and sent into the mountains, with a warning never to return less they face a more serious penalty.

Of course, everyone knew there would be no merciful penalty for the witch who had given Merida a spell to change her fate. King Fergus had switched out his obsession with hunting the demon bear Mor'du with hunting the old woman now known as the Bear Witch. Merida almost felt guilty for the old woman's predicament, but stubbornness, as well as her own anger at the curse that had almost cost her her mother, largely kept any feelings of remorse at bay. When it came to it, Merida was her father's daughter. She had admitted her role in her mother's Bear Curse, but her sense of righteous indignation still demanded the old woman atone for her crimes.

"Merida, did yeh ken the old folk still leave offerings at the auld stanes??" Harris piped up, poking at his meal of squishy poached egg.

A deep frown burrowed its way into Fergus' brow, and his voice dropped to a low tremor.

"What?"

If the boys noticed their father's change of spirit, they didn't let on.

Hubert grinned at his sister. "They leave bits of cloth and sometimes shoes and old coins. I even found a pile of teeth there once."

Hamish shuddered beside his brother. "Aye, that was mingin'. We found them in a leather bag tied up with hair." He pulled a face like he was going to be sick. "But sometimes we go up an' find the old folk've left food offerings."

Harrish laughed and thumped his brother on the back. "Oh aye! Remember that time we found a pile of Maudie's scones lying under the-"

A loud bang made everyone jump. It seemed to echo around the room for an age. Fergus was standing, his hand still lying flat on the table where he had slammed it with such force. Suddenly the atmosphere in the hall was not so easy.

It was rare for King Fergus to wear a look like this. His eyes were cold and stony, and hard as nails as he stared down at his three boys.

"I told you never to go up to the Stanes." His voice was no longer raised, but the hard low edge to it was somehow more unnerving. "And when a king gives orders, I expect the sons of Dunbroch to obey them. The stanes are - _not_ \- to be messed with."

For once, Hamish, Hubert and Harris looked genuinely shame-faced. They nodded their heads quietly and stared at their laps, unable to keep eye contact with their father's hard expression.

"Aw, come on, Dad, give them a break," Merida spoke up, attempting to lighten the mood and dissolve the sudden tension with a half chuckle. "It's not like they have'nae done worse than pokin' about a pile of old rocks-"

"The stones are NOT to be messed with!" Fergus bellowed, turning his ire on her. He pointed a massive finger at his daughter's face, blazing eyes narrowing fiercely. "And YOU should know that better than anyone."

Fergus pushed his chair back from the table with such force that it toppled over and hit the floor with a crash. He didn't stop to pick it up as he marched out of the hall, his ironwood leg striking a dissonant chord against the flagstones as he went.

Merida sat rigid in her seat. She could feel the hot flush of blood rising up in her cheeks in blotchy patches, but her pride and temper were thrown by her father's hurtful words. A burning sensation prickled behind her eyes. Her mother ordered the boys out of the room in a firm but gentle voice. They didn't need telling twice, shuffling out of the room without a word, casting their sister furtive looks as they went.

Merida felt the bench dip beside her as her mother sat by her side, her voice full of soothing words as she petted her hair. But all Merida could hear was the thrumming pound of blood in her ears. Her father had never spoken that way to her before - had never once blamed her for what had happened five years ago. At least not out loud. But there it was. Now she knew. And the truth of it struck her like a broadsword to the gut. She felt her mother wrap a soft but strong hand around her own, and squeeze.

"Merida," Elinor began, unsure. "Your father... You know he does'nae mean it. He spoke out of fear." Merida snorted derisively, but Elinor continued. "You know Fergus never believed in magic before... well, before the Curse. Not really. It shook his world to the core."

"Aye. And I'm to blame for it." Merida dug her fingers into her thighs, hot tears threatening to spill over her eyelashes.

"Don't give yourself so much credit, love." The Queen reached out to smooth her hair back, but Merida flinched away. She sighed. "Merida, fate is like stitches in a tapestry; we're woven together and every stitch that came before ours can change the whole. Remember you were not the only one to ask the witch for a spell. And if you had not, how many more lives would have been destroyed by Mor'du?" Elinor reached forward and cupped her daughter's cheeks, fondly. "Taking responsibility for your actions is admirable. But you canna dwell on the past. A great ruler will own their mistakes, but a wise one knows to learn from them while moving forward."

Merida nodded, but her jaw was set tight. "You're right, mum." She stood. "I can't change the past. But I can stop it from controllin' my future." She turned and marched in the opposite direction her father had left, the anger and power in her stride all too similar to the King's.

Under her breath, she added quietly, "I'll find and kill the witch myself."

 

**oOo**

 

Queen Elinor pinched the bridge of her nose as the large door shut firmly after her daughter. No doubt the girl - no, Elinor corrected herself, Merida was a young woman now - would disappear for the rest of the day with Angus, riding off her temper. But the hurt Fergus had caused would linger much longer. Outwardly, Merida was still the same free-spirited, rambunctious, un-ladylike Princess she'd been five years ago, but the Bear Curse had left its mark on her too, as all magic did to those it encountered.

Suddenly the main door to the hall swung inwards and a messenger arrived, face flushed and panting as he half ran to her side.

"It is customary to knock, Lachlan," the Queen chided sharply, regarding the wheezing messenger with distaste.

The young man bowed hastily. "Ah'm sorry, your majesty. Please forgive me. I've bin' riding for three days straight."

"From Lord Dingwall's land?"

The messenger shook his sweaty head. "No, M'Lady, MacGuffin's."

"MacGuffin's??" she repeated in surprise. The MacGuffin clan's territories were farthest from Dunbroch, situated along the coast of the North East highlands. To have ridden here in three days was a feat; certainly not a journey you would undertake by horse in so short a time, not without good reason. Her stomach lurched. "Speak, boy. Give me your news, and then we shall see about getting you fed and rested."

"Thank you, but ah've no time for that, M'Lady. The North is under attack and I must return to Lord MacGuffin as soon as you relay the message to the King."

Elinor felt sick. "The Norsemen?"

"Yes-" he stopped, shook his head. "No. Sort of. It... It is difficult to explain, M'lady. I must talk to the King right away," he pleaded.

She nodded tersely, swallowing her irritation. "That you will. But know that the King will likely want to accompany you back to ascertain the state of things himself."

"That won't be possible, yer Majesty."

Elinor frowned. "And why not?"

"There's nothing to see."

"What?"

"Clan MacGuffin's lands, M'Lady. They're gone."

 

**oOo**

 

Harvest was in full swing and the days were growing noticeably shorter. The frosts had come early and there with a fierce nip in the air.

Angus's hooves thundered across the frosty ground as Merida pushed him to full froth. Her bones ached, but she drove them tirelessly on through marsh and bog, and finally into the thickest, darkest part of the wood on the hills. Here the trees grew closer together and the undergrowth became treacherous. Enormous twisting trunks huddled like old folk around a fire, barring their way and slicing Merida's red cheeks with their thorny fingers.

Merida didn't know how or where she would find the witch, but somehow she knew she would.

They rode so hard that morning that she did not even notice the sea har rolling into the bay of Dunbroch, trailing after a fleet of ships with their familiar banners flying proud.

Heavy snow clouds grazed the craggy black mountain peaks high above. To those going about their daily chores within Dunbroch's lands, the dip in temperature was noticeable, turning many back home to collect their plaid.

But Merida did not notice the cold or the snow starting to trickle down from the mountains.

She did not see anything until she saw the wisps.

Angus lurched sideways and tossed his head nervously as the first blue light flickered into existence. She patted his damp neck, smoothing the short black coat.

"Come on, lad," she coaxed him on.

They followed the wisps for what seemed like hours, leaving the castle and bay of Dunbroch far below as they wove around the well trodden deer paths mapping the hillsides. By noon, they came to a valley between two black, hump-backed mountains. The forest was at its thickest here and she had to lead Angus by the reigns, stepping carefully between huge roots and ancient mossy stones. Here and there, she noticed a number of rags tied to the tree branches above, flapping in the rising wind. She shivered. She had never liked those rags. They always made her think of broken wings or white, grasping fingers. She averted her eyes and shifted closer to Angus.

Lazy snowfall trickled out, turning to hard sleet and rain, and she began to wonder if they had simply climbed so far up into the valley they were now walking through cloud. Either way, she was soaked to the bone when the last blue flicker of a wisp darted into view and shimmered out, revealing a crude stone broch in a little clearing ahead.

Smoke billowed from a hole in its rounded roof.

"Well someone's home." Merida swallowed and narrowed her blue eyes at the entrance to the hovel. Her hand fell to the hilt of her claymore. "Stay here, Angus. This won't take long, lad."

She let his reigns fall, and drew her blade.

The interior of the broch was much larger inside than its outer walls suggested. In fact, it almost looked identical to the witch's cottage she had entered all those years ago. Great leather-bound tomes adorned the shelves, while every other available surface was covered in all manner of bear motif collectables. A tatty crow stood on a perch, pecking at something that looked suspiciously like the gory remains of an eyeball, and at the far side of the circular room, a small cauldron boiled and spat above a crackling green fire.

Beside the fire sat the witch, happy as Larry. She was knitting something that looked like a hideous pair of oatmeal coloured trousers, though Merida did not want to know why the garment owned a third leg.

She shook her red head to clear the distraction. Tightening her resolve, along with her grip on her sword hilt, she stepped inside the broch and strode purposefully towards the hearth.

"Ooh, so you've come t' kill me have you, dearie?" the Bear Witch greeted her, pleasantly. "It's about time. You're three minutes late, y'know." She looked up and winked. "Thought maybe you had a change of heart, but..." She raised her wiry eyebrows at the broadsword in Merida's hand, pointedly. "...I'm guessin' no."

Merida pointed her sword at the witch's wrinkly throat, while keeping a safe distance from the cauldron. She eyed its bubbling contents warily.

"Don't move, witch." She indicated the enormous black pot with a sharp nod of her chin. "Show me the contents."

The witch frowned. "Of the cauldron?"

"Aye." Merida scowled. "What evil spell are you magicking up in there, y'old hag?"

The witch blinked. "Chicken Broth."

The proud line of her shoulders faltered a bit, and her cheeks coloured. The Princess regained her stance quickly, however, drawing herself back to full height.

"And that?" she demanded again, motioning at the pile of knitting in the witch's lap. "What manner of three-legged beast is that for?"

"I beg your pardon?" The witch looked down at her knitting, puzzled, and held it up to the candlelight light. "OCH! You bloody bird! Could you no have told me I'd gone and knitted THREE legs?!" she hollerred at the crow, waving the knitting in the air with one hand, while the other lobbed a nearby bear carving at the beast.

"Don't blame me!" The crow on the perch at the door cawked, dodging the airborne missile easily. "I thought it was meant to look like that!"

"Bollocks," the witch swore. "How many Princes do you ken with three legs?!"

The crow gave a shrug of his hunched back. "What do I know about humans and their bits? I'm a crow. For all I know your third leg drops off at puberty."

The second launched missile hit its target, and the crow tumbled to the ground in a flurry of black feathers.

"A stuffed parakeet'd have more sense than you," the Bear Witch muttered, snapping her fingers. A broom in the corner lurched to life, and swept the half-conscious bird behind a bookcase. The witch turned to Merida with an apologetic smile, as if she were late meeting the Princess for afternoon tea. "Och, sorry dear. Where are my manners? You were about tae run me through with yer broad sword, weren't you?" The Bear Witch smiled congenially, revealing a graveyard grin of crooked yellow teeth.

Despite her best intentions, Merida was flustered. "Y-Yes," she growled, jutting her chin out challengingly, but even she could hear the tremor in her voice. How was this silly old bat possibly capable of the kind of power she appeared to wield? Merida watched in near astonishment as the old woman shrugged her bony shoulders and began pottering around the hovel, removing the cauldron from the fire and dragging out stained tin mugs and a battered old kettle from a cupboard by the hearth.

"Well while you're makin' yer mind up, why don't I put on a cuppa tea? You must'a ridden hard from Dunbroch, lass. It's no exactly a hop, skip an' a jump, and it's starting to blow a gale. Dearie me dosles, where did I put those tea biscuits? Aha! I knew I had a packet of jammy dodgers in here.”

The witch pulled out a box of mouldering biscuits and piled them onto a plate. With a crooked finger she beckoned an extra chair and small table over to the hearth. Merida didn't notice the chair lumbering towards her until it had scooped her up and settled her down by the hearth.

"Kettle's on! Go on, will you no have a wee bicky? Or how about some rock?" she asked eagerly, shoving a bowl of hard-boiled blue sweets under Merida's nose. Over time, the boiled sweets had congealed and cemented together to form one very unappetising lump of sugar. The witch blew a thick layer of dust off the top and attempted to flick off a dead fly stuck fast to the mass.

"Uh, no..." Merida eyed the sweets warily. "...thanks. I'll uhm... I'll pass." Suddenly she remembered herself, and her eyes hardened. "The last time you gave me something to eat it didn't go down too well."

"Aye." The Bear Witch gave her a crooked smirk. "But it did the trick, didn't it?"

Merida glared. "It nearly destroyed my family."

"Is that why you're here, dearie? For revenge?" the witch asked, and her voice dropped to a low, knowing timbre. "Or are you just nursin' yer guilt to keep it warm?"

A shrill whistling filled the air between them as the kettle came to a boil. Merida kept the old woman's sharp gaze for as long as she could, but the fight had gone out of her. She let the tip of her broadsword dip to the floor, along with her head, hair spilling over her shoulders.

"I don't know what I'm doing here," she admitted quietly. "I thought I could come here and... and-"

"Slice me to ribbons?" The Bear witch cackled, pouring them both a mug of piping hot tea. "Chop me up and leave my toes for the wee beasties to nibble on?"

"Yum!" cawed the crow.

"Shut it!"

Metal scraped along worn flagstones as Merida got to her feet, dragging her sword with her. The fight had gone out of her. A feeling of heavy weight pressed upon her, as if the day's hard ride had finally taken its toll. She sheathed her sword, then gave the witch a stern, but sad look.

"You're safe from me today, old woman. But dinnae think the King won't be after your head still." Her blue eyes fell to the floor again with a frown. "When Dad starts something, he doesn't know how to give up."

The witch's eyes twinkled. "A trait he clearly passed on t' you, dearie. Now, please sit down." She snapped her withered fingers and the armchair Merida had been sitting in tripped her back into its seat. "Truth be told, I have wee bit o' a bone to pick with your family myself."

The hairs on Merida's neck stood on end as the Bear Witch fixed her with a cold, unsmiling gaze, and suddenly she seemed less like a dighted old wise woman, and more the cunning witch whose prey had walked straight into her trap. Merida could have kicked herself - how could she have been so stupid to let her guard down? Her hand darted towards her sword, but the moment she touched the hilt, the metal turned red hot. She snatched her hand away, hissing and swearing at the burned flesh of her palm.

"Ah-ah!" The witch wagged a crooked finger and the arm-rests on Merida's chair wove around her in a bone-crushing embrace. "No swords now, if you please. You had your chance. Now we have business to discuss."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this fic is making me realise how many Scottish words I use that aren't actually English. My American flatmate threw a hairy paloorie when I tried to explain to her the meaning of the word 'oose'. So feel free to ask if there are any words you don't know.
> 
> Broch - An ancient drystone round tower.  
> Dearie me dosles - Okay, I have no idea what this means. It's just something my mum says. I think it means 'Oh dear', but hell if I understand half the shit she comes out with. XD  
> Dighted - daft, senile, idiot  
> Ghasties - ghosts  
> Kelpie - Pretty sure everyone knows what a Kelpie is, but just in case, a Kelpie is a monstrous horse which appears to its victims as a shining white mare with a silver bridle. Once it lures them onto its back, the Kelpie drags them deep down into a loch to devour.  
> Ken - know (still commonly used here, the word ken has its origins in the rune 'Kenaz', meaning knowledge)  
> Minging - Something gross or foul smelling.  
> Peelly-wally - A sickly pallor (my mum still says this when I'm sick XD)  
> Sith - Pronounced "shee" (as in banshee). Similar to the Irish sidhe, the sith are Scottish faeries, spirits and deities. They usually haunt mounds and knolls, and you don't have to look far to find a place named after them.


	3. Flights O' Fancy

 

 

**oOo**

 

“ _Why is my face so dark, so dark?_

_So dark, oho! So dark, ohee!_

_Out in all weathers I wander alone_

_In the mire, in the cold, ah me!”_

 

 

**oOo**

 

The crow flapped over to the arm of the Bear Witch's chair. The keen-eyed wise woman petted his greasy black feathers absently, while the bird leered at the furious Princess kept prisoner in her seat.

"Let me go! I want no business with you, you bletherin' old hag!" Merida roared. She wriggled furiously against her restraints, but the chair held her tight.

"Oh but we do, my dear. Whether either of us like it or no, we have business tae attend to," said the witch, darkly. "You see, when I returned to Dunbroch all those years ago, I thought it wise no to hang around too long, on account of King Fergus setting against my kind. Not that I could stay anyway, mind you, seein' as you and your mither had gone and exploded my hoose."

The old woman gave the princess a hard look. Merida had the grace to blush, even as her temper flared.

"Well maybe if you had left a _note_ instead of a _cauldron,_ it would still be standing."

"Still proud as the peaks o' Nevis."* The witch clucked her tongue and shook her bushy grey head with a chuckle. "Our business does not concern my home - though a monetary compensation wouldn't go awry."

"Monetary compensation!" the crow repeated excitedly.

" _Wheesht_!" snapped the witch, and a thin blue thread instantly wove itself magically around the crow's beak. The old woman hummed her approval, then turned her attention back to Merida, who swallowed thickly. Firelight flickered and flashed against her weathered old skin, giving her eyes an eerie glow.

"No, Princess. Our business concerns the stanes."

"The stanes?" Merida frowned. "What about them?"

The witch leaned closer. "You don't happen to have had any peculiar dreams lately, dearie? Dreams that feel so real you can hear the crunch of the snow under your boots? The feel of the mist on yer cheek?" She smiled knowingly at the Princess's reaction and nodded to herself. "Aye. I thought as much."

Merida realised her mouth had been gaping open; she closed her jaws with a stubborn snap. "Rubbish. You thought nothin'. You really think I'll fall for your tricks a second time? Dreams are just..." she reached for the word, growled in frustration, "just dreams, everyone has them! Now let me go, or I swear I'll shove my foot so far up yer hide-"

Suddenly the fire in the hearth sprang to life. Merida jumped as the flames blazed high up the small chimney, filling the little hovel with a furious roar. She stared in horror, unable to tear her eyes from the incredible sight. Pictures were emerging in the licking flames; strange, flickering and hauntingly familiar: a trail of wisps... a ring of standing stones upon a wooded hill... a bear fighting tooth and claw to protect her daughter from the demon Mor'du. Merida found she could only watch in dreadful awe as the events of five years ago played out amongst the dancing flames. The heat from the the fire seemed to grow hotter as the fight between the two monstrous bears intensified - and then, in a _whoosh_ of flames, one bear fell and Mor'du's face filled the whole hearth. Merida felt the fear hit her like ice water. Teeth glinting, jaws salivating, the demon bear's eyes flashed like hot coals. Fury poured from every flame and curl of smoke until the room felt choked with it. A snarl, a growl, and the beast rushed at her, gaping jaws snapping at her throat. Merida screamed and flinched away as sparks singed her hair, expecting to be fully engulfed. But there was the standing stone - the tallest of the _Clanach Sluagh_ \- teetering, groaning, finally crashing down upon Mor'du's head.

An almighty crack split the night and the broch was plunged into darkness.

Merida could hear Angus outside, whinnying pitilessly. Her own heart thundered in her chest like a blacksmith's hammer.

"What was that?" she whispered hoarsely.

As if in answer, a cold blue-green glow began to pulse in the hearth where the fire had blazed only seconds ago. After a moment, the image of the broken stane from the circle came into being, its sharp edges like a ragged wound.

"Old stones should never be meddled with," the Bear Witch hissed, her voice quiet but ferocious as the gaze she now trained on the Princess. "They are sacred. Their roots grow deep under the mountain. They hold knowledge, secrets, power; they are chambers of the dead, the _Taibh_ ; they tie us to our ancestors, the old gods, the folk under the hill." She took a rattled breath and sighed. "If need be, they can even be prisons." Merida's head snapped up at that, catching the witch's gaze. "Aye, Princess. A prison. A prison you've gone and broken into." She spat a curse at the fire and gave a mournful groan. "And worse than that, your people have gone and laid offerings at its bloody stump! You do realise worship is what gives a god its power, don't you?"

Merida's eyes darted between the blue fire and the witch's fierce gaze. "Offerings? I.. But- that's.. A prison for _who_??" she spluttered.

"For the Cailleach."

The blue light fizzled out and the broch settled back to its original state, a little fire springing up with the tuneful crackle of burning logs. The crow had removed the binding string around his beak, but he remained silent and watchful.

"The Cailleach?" Merida repeated flatly. "...You've got to be kiddin' me."

The witch snorted. "Would that I was, dearie."

It was a cold reply. The old woman did not meet Merida's eyes now, only hunched over the fire and glowered, with an occasional vicious poke at a log. It seemed her earlier cheerful nature had been an act. She was clearly furious, but Merida suddenly realised that the anger wasn't directed at her. The Bear Witch was angry with herself.

Still. Enough was enough. The Cailleach wasn't a legend riddled with truths, nor could she be compared with wisps, ghosts or brownies. The Cailleach, or 'Lady of the Cold', was pure myth - an old god long since forgotten by the people, except in their hearthside tales and songs.

And Merida had had enough of fireside tales for one evening. She tested her strength against the witch's restraints and found they had slackened. In a flash, she jumped to her feet and unsheathed her sword, aiming its point at the Bear Witch's throat.

"You're up a lum, old woman, and I am done here." She began to back out of the broch slowly, eyes trained on the witch's hunched form. "And don't try 'n stop me, or else you'll have more to worry about than yer flights o' fancy."

The witch finally dragged her gaze towards the Princess as she reached the threshold. Behind the girl, the rising gale and sleet had turned the late afternoon black as night.

Anger still radiated from every fibre of the old woman, but she did not move from the hearth.

"Don't worry. I cannae hold yeh here, dearie." She gave another derisive snort. "You have to make the choice yerself."

"Aye." Merida glared, tilting her chin up. "And this is the choice I'm making. My father is right. The Clan of Dunbroch will have no more to do with magic, or your kin. Of that I'll make certain."

Then Merida turned and took hold of a towering block of bookcases by the door, and heaved as hard as she could. The bookcase wobbled, teetered on two legs for a second, then toppled over with an almighty crash across the threshold. Merida made her escape through the door before it had time to hit the flagstones, willing her legs to go faster as she slipped and skidded in the slick mud outside. The storm was howling now, the sleet and rain stinging like a thousand lashes, but Merida did not pause to look back. She grabbed Angus's reigns, hauled herself over his broad back, and bellowed him into action. The Clydesdale didn't need convincing twice, hooves thundering into the woods and down the glen back to Dunbroch.

The Bear Witch heaved a heavy sigh as her tired old eyes followed the Princess's retreat into the dark. The crow hopped closer, bobbing its head and peering at her, curiously.

"Well. That was rude," he remarked wryly. "What are you going to do now?"

"Only one option left. Being a happy coward, I'd much rather avoided this, but seems I haven't a choice." The Bear Witch got to her feet and with a casual wave of her hand, the fallen bookcase righted itself in an instant. "Get your glad rags on. We're going to pay a visit tae the King."

The crow narrowed its beetle-black eyes suspiciously at her. "I like how you say *we*."

"Shut yer beak and help me pack."

 

**oOo**

 

It was well into late evening when Merida finally slunk back through the gates with Angus in tow, leading him across the castle's muddy courtyard to the stables. Fatigue distracted her from noticing the number of windows lit by candlelight in the castle. It wasn't until after she had finished tending to Angus and snuck into the kitchen that she noticed the general hubbub. The kitchen was full of servants, dashing too and fro, boiling water and chopping veg like the De'il himself was on their heels.

"What's going on? Nessa? Mhairi??" She tried in vain to catch the attention of the kitchen girls as they skittered around her, apologising but never pausing in their duties. The general chatter and activity in the room was so loud and busy, they barely registered the Princess was there.

"Merida! There you are, girl!" Maudie cried, rushing to her side. She tsked as she pat the Princess's wet clothes down in distress. "Get out of those sodden clothes right away, young lady, you'll catch your death going about in them!" The maid paused, narrowing her eyes. "Have you singed your hair?"

Merida pushed away the woman's fussing hands. "Maudie, what is happening? Why's everyone running about like a bunch of headless chickens?"

Maudie's face became grave. "You've no heard?" Shaking her head, she pulled a bundle of heather from her pocket and kissed it reverently, muttering various wards under her breath.

Merida glared. " _Maudie_."

"It's the clans- your father-"

Merida's eyes grew wide. "Dad."

Before Maudie could stop her, she was pushing through the women in the kitchen and dashing up the stairs, half-tripping on the filthy hem of her skirts. When she reached the main hall, voices met her ears - one hundred or so at least. She looked around in awe. Every chair, surface, every floor space was occupied. She could tell immediately by the plaid the men and women wore that none gathered were of the Dunbroch clan. Casting her eye over the hall, she spotted the fiery red and blue of MacIntosh, the clashing yellow greens of Dingwall, and the soft orange and mossy tones of the MacGuffins.

At the far side of the room she saw the young sons of Lord Dingwall and Lord MacIntosh (though Merida knew them as Colin and Dougal respectively), sitting on a bench by the wall. The tables had been removed to allow more room for the visitors.

Rushing towards them, Merida had a sense of growing panic in her gut. Where was her mother? Where was her dad?

"Dougal, what's happened?" Her voice tumbled out in a rush, forgetting all formalities. "What are you doing here? It looks like you brought every member of your clan!"

The Young MacIntosh looked up at her with a slightly reproachful look. Dougal wasn't a stickler for the rules exactly, but he had an ego the size of a mountain and enjoyed the proper respect usually afforded him. Mind you, this was Merida. If she wasn't doing her damndest to bring his ego down a peg or two, she was taking the opportunity to yell at him, as she was at this moment. He wouldn't rise to it tonight, though. He stood to greet her, eyes round and haunted, though he was in better shape than most of those gathered in the King's hall.

"My Lady Merida." He squeezed her shoulder in greeting, then recoiled slightly at the dampness of her dress and wiped his hand none too subtly on Wee Dingwall's plaid. "That's because they _are_ all here. Clan Dingwall, too. And the MacGuffins. Most are camped out on the high green nearby."

"But why?" Merida looked around the great hall, searching for some clue as to what was happening. No one was smiling or joking. The clan members barely even talked among themselves. Drawn faces reflected the haunted look Young MacIntosh wore. To her sickening realisation, she saw that many of them were injured, too. When she turned back, Merida noticed Colin's expression for the first time. The strange pale lad always looked a bit vacant and unfocused, but now his eyes were glassy with tears, and he stared into the distance as if he were seeing something he couldn't quite comprehend.

"I think Clan Dingwall made it by the skin of their teeth," Dougal remarked flatly.

Her stomach dropped. She grit her jaw and drew Dougal a grave look.

"So it's war then?"

Dougal shrugged. "Yes? No? Who bloody knows." He dropped himself back onto the bench and hung his head between his knees. "The Lords are talking with your parents upstairs. Maybe you'll get some answers from them, _Princess_."

That was enough for her. Merida spun on her heel towards the stairs, but before she climbed the first step something suddenly struck her. She cast a look over the inhabitants of the hall, noting for the first time how few members of the MacGuffin Clan was in their midst.

"Dougal... Where's Connall?"

Young MacIntosh didn't respond.

 

**oOo**

 

Loud voices echoed in the high chamber above the hall. From her hiding spot at the crack of the door, Merida could only see dancing shadows in the firelight, but she didn't need to see inside to recognise her father's booming voice.

"Whit d' yeh mean, ' _gone_ '? Land cannae just... POOF, disappear in a puff o' pink smoke!"

The poor messenger, fraught with nerves and exhaustion, was ready to burst into tears. Fergus cut a menacing figure when his temper was on the boil, and right now it was bubbling over. He paced the grand hall, his ironwood leg striking the flagstones with an angry thunk of each long stride.

"They call it snow blindness, M'Lord."

"I know what snow blindness is, ya ninnie!"

"Beggin' your pardon, M'Lord, but not like this you don't," the young Lachlan pleaded. "It began in isolated villages and settlements outside Lord MacGuffin's stronghold. We heard stories, but we believed them to be tall tales at the time. Then Young MacGuffin went out tae see for himself." The wiry man bowed his red head. "He returned a few days later with a handful of survivors."

Fergus turned to look at the boy over his enormous shoulder, frowning. "From one village?"

"No, M'Lord. From all o' them."

Fergus stopped pacing. He gave his wife a look full of confusion and worry Elinor was calm and still, the perfect picture of a monarch, but he knew her well and he could see behind her perfect facade to the dark eyes, round and full of fear.

The messenger continued. "When the Young MacGuffin returned, he recounted everythin' he saw. The first village he came upon was something out of a nightmare. It was as if time had stopped - every last man, woman and wee bairn frozen solid in the middle of their last breath. The villages after that were much the same, sir. The ones that survived have come away with rotten black limbs." The messenger's head drooped, hands trembling on the mug of hot brew Maudie had brought him earlier. "We sent a hunting party out to scout fer more survivors after Young MacGuffin returned, an' a couple o' Lord MacGuffin's other sons led the party."

"And they verified Young MacGuffin's story?" asked the King.

The messenger nodded grimly. "Aye. Those who made it back, sir. Lord MacGuffin's sons were lost to us." He took a shaky sip of his drink, then continued his tale. "We were convinced we'd aw be safe inside the fort walls, but three days ago we saw the storm brewing." He squeezed his eyes closed. "A stranger sight ah've never beheld a'fore. Clouds so big 'n black you'd have thought the sea itself was burning. It didn't move like a normal storm would - dragged itself across the waves like an animal, M'Lord, like a great black beast heavin' its belly over from the wastelands in the north. Some swore blind they saw shapes with the horns o' the Norsemen marching in the storm. So you see, M'Lord, we didnae understand what was coming until the sea froze solid and it was almost on top of us."

"A storm?" King Fergus's features softened as he watched the man's obvious distress. He crouched in front of him, laying one massive hand on his shoulder. "A storm struck the MacGuffin clan?"

The messenger looked up, blinking bleary wet eyes. "Yes." He shook his head, confused. "No. You have to understand, M'Lord. It's no just any storm. It's like a living thing. A beast. A monster carrying warriors across the sea in its belly. And with it-" He choked back a sob. "Snow, blizzards, winds like blades. You've never seen a storm like this, my King. It struck down MacGuffin's fort like it was naught but a wee child's toy."

King Fergus drew in breath, leaning closer. "And Lord MacGuffin? What of him?"

The Queen cast her husband a worried look. Of all the Lords, Fergus regarded Alastair MacGuffin as his most reliable ally and dearest friend. The bond of friendship between them was deep, and Elinor knew that news of Alastair's death would grieve him sair. But the messenger did not answer.

Merida clutched the door-frame, a sick feeling swimming in her gut.

"Ah'm sorry, Fergus." The new voice belonged to Lord MacIntosh. He was sitting with his head bowed over his bony knees in much the same position as his son in the hall below. "When the storm struck, Alastair gave Lachlan here orders to ride to Dunbroch and warn you. The rest of his clan fled to my door after that. But they were led by Alastair's six youngest. What happened to him and his eldest lad..." Lord MacIntosh stopped abruptly to clear his throat. "We couldn't wait any longer, Fergus. The storm grew visible on the horizon the day before last. I'm not sure we would've made it if we'd left it any later."

Fergus was silent, but he clapped a large hand on the Clan Lord's shoulder in a knowing gesture.

Merida could only think of the terror the Clan MacGuffin must have felt as they stood helpless on the high walls of the citadel, watching the storm thundering over the sea towards them, knowing few would be able to outrun it.

She thought of Young MacGuffin, that fair-haired, shy, completely incomprehensible boy she had first met during the suitors' competition five years ago. What sad fate had he met?

During her first meeting with the eldest sons of the three Lords, Merida had paid little attention to the young men. But in the annual games since that fateful year, she had grown a little fond of them in her own way. They were to be her future allies, after all.

Of the three sons, Young MacGuffin had largely remained a stranger to her. She had developed a stronger grasp of his dialect, but he was painfully shy and kept his distance, and, well, Merida had been fine with that. She had even been grateful for having one less maddening suitor to worry about.

Now the thought left her sick with guilt.

To think Young MacGuffin and his father may have died in such an awful way... Merida felt dizzy suddenly, like the solid reliable world she had always known had shifted violently beneath her feet, throwing everything off kilter. Her mind flashed back to the cold wasteland in her dream, and the Bear Witch's warning rang in her ears.

She stumbled against the oak frame and for a moment she noticed the lines her father had made there every year, marking her height as she grew up. The door swung open. She caught his gaze.

King Fergus blinked in surprise. "Merida?"

Elinor rushed to her side, gasping as she felt her daughter's sodden garments. "God, what have you been doing? You're half drowned, you silly girl!"

Merida could only shake her head dully. "Ah'm fine, Mum," she heard herself say. Her throat burned and her skin prickled all over. "I want to know what's going on?" She took an unsteady step towards her father. "Is it the Norsemen? Are they attacking?"

"Merida."

"What happened to the MacGuffins will happen here, won't it?"

" _Merida_ ," Fergus's voice rose in warning.

"But dad, if the Norsemen are attacking with magic, we have to go to the witch!" she cried. "I think she might know what's happening-"

"A witch?" The stunted Lord Dingwall, who up until now had remained silent and brooding, got to his feet beside Lord MacIntosh and looked at Fergus, accusingly. "But I thought you banished all the witches?"

"I _did_ ," Fergus growled. "Merida, that's ENOUGH."

"No, Dad, you have to listen! I went to see the Bear Witch today." She heard her mother gasp behind her, but the words kept spilling from her lips. "She told me. She told me something was coming, but I didn't listen." Merida looked pleadingly at the two lords, who stood gawking at the raving princess.

MacIntosh leaned slightly towards Dingwall and muttered, "Has she gone completely doolally?"

"Ayem, seems it."

Maybe she had, Merida admitted. But if there was a chance, just a single chance the Bear Witch had spoken the truth, she knew she had to swallow her pride and speak up. After all, the wisps must have led her to the witch for a reason. And whether she liked it or no, Merida knew there had been some truths ringing in the old woman's words.

Just as legends rang with truths.

"If anyone knows what this is and how to stop what's coming, it must be the Bear Witch." She spun back to her father. Her head was pounding now and her throat was raw. "Dad, you have to-"

"You went to see the witch?" Her father's voice was calm, but the quiet anger in it was deafening. "After everything - after what I warned you of this morning, you still went to see the witch?" He shook his head at her in disbelief. "You put everyone in danger. Yer a stupid, selfish wee girl."

It was the disappointment rather than the anger in his eyes that broke her heart. Merida opened her mouth, closed it, searched desperately for the words that might reach him, but Fergus looked at her as if he was truly seeing his daughter for the first time. Like she were a stranger.

He shook his head, as if to clear his own head. "You need to think about where your loyalties lie."

Her eyes flashed up, but before she could speak the door of the main hall below opened with a bang below and one after another voices rang through the castle:

"It's MacGuffin!"

"It's Lord MacGuffin!"

"He's alive!"

 

**oOo**

 

 **Bletherin' -** Talking rubbish

 **Mither -** mother

 **Hoose -** house

 ***Nevis -** Ben Nevis is the highest mountain in Scotland. ...Found a piano on it once.

 **Wheesht! -** Hush!

 **Stanes -** Stones

 **Gawping -** gawking

 **Taibh -** faeries

 **Cailleach Bheara -** Pronounciation, 'Kay Ach'. The ' _ch_ ' is pronounced the same way you would pronounce the Scottish "loch" (like the German pronunciation of 'ich').Cailleach literally means hag in Scottish Gaelic. The Cailleach Bheara was a Celtic giantess and winter deity, said to have created the mountains in Scotland and Ireland by pouring rocks from her giant creel. She had eight followers, hags with powers over the weather.

 **Lum -** chimney

 **Glad rags -** fancy clothes

 **De'il -** Devil

 **Sair -** sore

 


	4. Red Sky in Morning, Shepherd's Warning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up, here are the suitors' names.  
> Young MacGuffin - Connall MacGuffin  
> Young MacIntosh - Dougal MacIntosh  
> Wee Dingwall - Colin Dingwall
> 
> Dougal's name comes from TrivialQueen's bloody marvellous fanfic, A Merry War - a Young MacIntosh x OC I recommend every Brave fan should read, even if you don't normally like OCs. Colin is Wee Dingwall's name in GAM3R G1RL 13's brilliant story, The Ties That Bind. Her take on Young MacGuffin is really unique and just a must read. Anyway, I wanted to pay homage to these stories as they pretty much pulled me out of my writing slump.

_My forefather was Finn McCool_

_That man who made the Devil howl_

_The skies cracked when he would scowl_

_And troubled all the air_

 

_He had a wife, she towered high_

_Her head was lifted to the sky_

_The heavens shifted when she passed by;_

_She was no slender lassie._

  
  
**\- Blind Harry and the Cailleach**

 

**oOo**

The fever that took her lasted two long nights. Consciousness slipped in and out like grain through her fingers. Merida tried to hold onto wakefulness as long as she could, but the fever dragged her away like a current, plunging her head under, over and over again, into the depths of darkness. Her mother stayed by her side through most of it, and once or twice Merida was positive she heard her father's voice close at her ear, singing tales of Fingal's giant-slaying adventures as he had when she'd been a bairn, but when she woke, he was gone - if he'd ever been there at all.

It wasn't long before she slipped back into a fitful sleep again. There the Dark was waited for her, alive and full of malice, like terrible purpose given to the shadows that lurk under bridges and eves, and behind the smiling eyes of men and women who would do you harm.

Worse than the suffocating darkness was the presence of the old standing stones. She could feel them on her, always watching, even in her brief moments of waking. With them came the low, steady beat of distant drums and chanting deep beneath the mountains. Instinct screamed at her to get away from those unseen eyes full of malice. Being in their presence felt like standing under a thundercloud before it burst, the air thick and heavy, like she was a drawing in a storm with a reel. She struggled against its grip on her, tunnelling upwards, trying to claw her way out of the dark, while the auld stanes drew in on her like a net.

Then her dreams suddenly changed and Merida found herself walking alone misty fen and moor. But in this strange, solitary land she gradually became aware of another creature walking, similar to the old stone megaliths but... older somehow. Much older. It lumbered across mountains as if they were stepping stones, and everything it touched blackened and died. Snow trickled through its huge body, as if the beast were not completely whole; a _taibhs_ searching for its kin. Soon it caught her scent, and Merida scrambled through the night mists to outrun it, but she knew the creature was hungry as it was old. Three times it caught her and tore her apart. On the third attack, Merida awoke with such a scream both her mother and Maudie nearly took the door off its hinges as they burst into the room.

Her brothers lurked in the doorway for long minutes after the incident, watching their sister with undisguised concern. But Merida saw neither hide nor hair of her great big stupidly stubborn father.

By the time she recovered, the first day of Samhain was under way. Voices drifted up from the main hall below, warm and cheerful now that the danger of the travelling storm from the north seemed to have passed, and all were safe and sound within the King's fort. To the clans and folk of Dunbroch, the storm seemed far away for now and the raucous celebrations briefly distracted them from their fears.

Music and sweet smelling smoke from the bone-fires drifted through Merida's bedroom windows from the castle grounds, where young lads and lasses foretold their fortunes and their future partners by performing various rites. Samhain celebrated the end of summer and the spoils of harvest, but it was also a festival of fire and premonition, culminating on the third day when the veil between the living world and the next would lift. All the coupling was a bit too lovey dovey for her tastes, but at least the food was good and she enjoyed the dancing. Likewise, King Fergus had always taken the supernatural elements of the holiday with more than a pinch of salt, but it would be a snowy day in June before he turned down a good ceilidh.

Merida slouched at her window, resting her cheek against a balled fist and watched a thin white mist rise up with the red dawn. Ghostly fingers of cloud streaked across the hilly land, giving everything an otherworldly feel. From her bedroom window, she could just make out white peaks of the tents sheltering refugees from the three clans. They had been raised on the grounds where Clan Dunbroch held its annual games on Beltane, commonly referred to as the 'high green'. The clan banners flew stubbornly in the breeze blowing in from the loch.

" _Red sky at night, Shepherd's delight_ ," she hummed, leaning her cheek against the cool window pane. " _Red sky in the morning, Shepherd's warn-_ "

She stopped. A familiar figure on the tussocked grounds below caught her eye. Merida squashed her face against the cold window, squinting to get a better look.

Lord MacGuffin and his eldest son had arrived at Dunbroch the night she had fallen ill, battered and bruised for their adventures, but thankfully very much alive. The younger MacGuffin's head was still bandaged and he was sporting a nasty looking bruise down one side of his face, but he looked in much better shape than the brief glimpse she had had of him before the fever took her.

Her bedroom door flung open as the maid came flying in carrying a plate of bread and meats, and looking harried.

"Miss! What are you doing out of bed? Your mother well be terribly vexed if she hears you've been moving about."

Merida resisted the urge to roll her eyes at the young woman. "I'm fine, Nessa, it was just a wee cold." She eyed her breakfast hungrily, digging in without so much as a customary glance at her cutlery. "Aw, yum, thanks."

Nessa set about plumping the cushions and pillows around the box seat, dragging over blankets and fussing with the Princess's impossible tangle of hair. It wasn't long before the maid got to chattering about everything Merida had missed while she had been ill. Nessa was well known in the village as Dunbroch's number one source for news and gossip. Normally Merida tended to tune her maid out, but even she couldn't help being a little curious about Lord MacGuffin and his son's recent adventures.

"Well! From what I hear the storm that cut off the MacGuffin lands has now covered everything north of MacIntosh territory," Nessa gushed excitedly. "Lord MacGuffin and his son barely made it by the skin of their teeth! By all accounts it would have swallowed them whole had it not been for their lucky rescue by a group of passing travellers."

"Pedlars?" Merida wondered out loud.

Nessa looked scandalised. "Oh no, Miss! Nothing o' the sort. You should see them for yourself. I never saw such a strange or strikin' party a'fore in my life. A dozen of them or so, and mostly unattended ladies would you believe? Terribly curious. The entire party is led by a fine Lady in a velvet gown black as night. Oh and she's ever so tall, almost as tall as King Fergus himself." Merida's attention began to drift as the maid went into excruciating detail about the Lady and her eight daughters' beautiful dark dresses adorned with silver trimmings and bangles. "To wear such a royal colour- do you suppose they're high borns from another kingdom? Oh! And here's the best part! Rumour has it one of the daughters has taken a wee fancy to Young MacGuffin."

That did pique Merida's interest. She sat up, blinking in perplexity. "Wait- Young MacGuffin?  Heir to the MacGuffin clan, shy as a mouse, cannae understand a word he's sayin',  _Young MacGuffin?_ "

Nessa tsked. "Och, he's come a long way since then. I think the lad's quite sweet in his own way. Not a patch on your handsome Young MacIntosh, however." Nessa sighed dreamily, then giggled and nudged the Princess with a teasing look. "If it's not too bold, I know who _I'd_ be choosin' if I were in yer place."

"It _is_ too bold, Nessa," she grunted around a mouthful of food. "And he's definitely not my MacIntosh. Nor do I have any desire fer him to be. Frankly yer welcome to them aw. They're not exactly my type. Or anyone else's, far as I can tell."

"Well anyway," Nessa brushed her off, eager to continue relating her carefully collected gossip, "you would never believe it but Lord MacGuffin is said to be a bit sweet on the grand Lady hersel'! He spends most of his time visiting her in her tent. But," Nessa frowned, her tone changing pensive, "it's a strange thing that none of them will enter the King's hall." Her fluttering hands stopped fussing with Merida's hair and she gave a mirthless little laugh. "It's silly, isn't it? But I actually find the Lady a wee bit frightening. There's a.. a sort of stillness to her."

As the morning wore on, Merida caught a glimpse of the strange party from her window. The Lady was indeed tall, with a pale face and sharp features. She was also incredibly thin, but for her thinness she did not appear gaunt or weak. She stood out amongst the crowd like a black thorn in winter, all sharp angles and commanding authority. The strange party rarely left the comforts of their tent, but they had sent the King and Queen great treasures in thanks for their hospitality, and Lord MacGuffin often went to and fro, usually accompanied by his eldest son.

Young MacGuffin.

Connall.

Merida leaned her cheek against one balled fist and let her eyes linger on him for a while, puzzling. The idea that Connall might be courting one of the Lady's daughters seemed off to her. She couldn't imagine the awkward young man flirting or taking a fancy to anyone. Over the years of their acquaintance, since their first formal meeting during the presentation of the suitors, Merida had never seen him speak to any of the ladies at a ceilidh or invite a girl to dance a reel. He was sociable and friendly enough. She seemed to recall he had particular enthusiasm for her father's tall tales, particularly the ones featuring Mor'du and or battling great fanciful beasts. When it came to the women at court, however, the MacGuffin heir barely bat an eyelid. He was quite different from his six brothers, who were a loud, friendly and rambunctious lot who tended to remind her of her father's hunting dogs. When it came to dancing, the younger sons of Lord MacGuffin were never shy about requesting her hand. Connall, however, could usually be found sitting on the sidelines, fidgeting nervously with his hands and looking like he wanted the castle walls to swallow him up. The few times she had danced with him had mostly led to disaster.

Something didn't feel right. It didn't sit with her that Young MacGuffin – gormless, awkward, nervous Young MacGuffin - had set his sights on someone so quickly. Something was niggling at her, picking away like a mouse scratching beneath the floorboards. She spent the rest of the morning glaring daggers at the strange party's tent from her window, like a guard dog with its hackles raised.

At noon, she decided she was well enough, and bored enough, to join the the celebrations. Quickly dressing, a last glance in the looking glass left her less than impressed: red eyes, rosy nose, pallid cheeks, hair in disarray, despite Nessa's valiant efforts to tame it. Merida knew she wasn't exactly a looker on the best of days, but it couldn't be helped. It wasn't like she had anyone to impress, though Young MacIntosh was sure to make a snide remark about her bed-head while simultaneously making some equally bad attempt to woo her. It was almost impressive how he managed to balance the two.

She finished dressing and headed downstairs, still a little wobbly on her feet. At every corner she paused and peered around, half hoping half despairing for a glimpse of her father. He had not spoken to her since the night of his outburst. Her heart still felt sick and furious at his words, and the repeat of them in her fitful dreams had not helped mend the wound. Duties would distract her. No doubt there were still folk needing aid after their travels.

Collecting piles of freshly folded linen and woollen blankets, she hurried down to the main hall and found it in a flurry of activity. Though most of the clans had moved into the tents erected up on the games field, Queen Elinor had insisted the injured, orphaned, and elderly stay within the safe confines of the castle. Many children had lost their parents to the storm, and Maudie had offered to look after them. Unfortunately, Hamish, Hubert and Harris had also volunteered their services, which naturally led to chaos.

A shriek, followed by a loud crash instantly met her ears and a gaggle of children raced by, led by three curly-haired grinning boys. Maudie followed hot on their heels, red-faced and brandishing a rolling pin.

Merida deftly jumped out of the way. "Oi, boys! Watch it!"

"What's this?" a familiar sneering voice scoffed from behind her. "Our wee Princess playing nursemaid?"

"Not for you, Dougal," she retorted, looking him up and down. "Though you could use one. The only thing holding your clothes together is their stubborn under-stains."

Young MacIntosh smirked and clasped her hand to his unnecessarily naked chest, attempting what she supposed was a smouldering gaze. To her, he just looked gassy.

"Oh aye?" he purred while stroking her fingers. "Well, if you ever fancy offering your particular services, Princess, I'm all ears."

"And nipples, apparently," Merida remarked with a dry look at his goose-pimply flesh, yanking her hand away and wiping it down the back of her dress. _So naked_. "Why don't you ask Maudie? I'm sure you're just her type."

"And disappoint my adoring fans?" Dougal waggled his eyebrows at her. Behind him, a gaggle of pink-faced girls dissolved into excited giggles as he graced them with a wink. "Besides, I wouldn't want to make you jealous. Here. Allow me, M'Lady. MacIntoshes are gentlemen, after all."

She cocked an eyebrow. "Oh aye, I'm sure."

Ignoring her very unladylike snort, Dougal took the smallest pile of blankets from her heavy load, making a grand show of his generous spirit. Merida rolled her eyes, but let him follow her around the hall as she did her rounds, passing out blankets and checking on the injured. If she were honest with herself, after so long stuck in her sickbed she was glad of the company, even if it meant she had to endure the young laird harping on about his latest heroic feats. After all this time, Dougal was still a colossal pain in the arse, but oddly enough she had formed something akin to a friendship with the lanky young heir to Clan MacIntosh. She wasn't best impressed with his attempts to woo her and most of the time they could be found tearing each other apart with barbed jibes and cutting insults, but it was mostly in good fun. It was simply how their friendship worked - usually with the pointy end of a sword between them. She wasn't convinced MacIntosh truly intended to marry her and if pressed, of her three suitors Merida would probably have to concede she enjoyed Dougal's company most. That wasn't much of a compliment however. She barely knew Young MacGuffin as he seemed to go out of his way to avoid her, and as for Wee Dingwall... well, Colin Dingwall was another matter entirely. He was a strange, pasty wee thing, with eyebrows so fair they gave him a look of constant surprise. Accordingly, most thought him a little slow or addled in the head, which Merida was sure suited Colin just fine. He seemed to enjoy being underestimated. But when the notion took him, he could fight like a wild boar or flirt with the best of them- the latter of which she had the unhappy honour of being the target.

The injured clansmen and women were thrilled with the Princess's appearance, but it wasn't long before Merida began to feel flushed and a little feverish again. Evidently recovery was taking a little longer than she'd liked. She wobbled a little on her feet, then righted herself, and took a deep steadying breath.

"Ugh, this cold. My head's pounding!" She wiped her wet nose along the back of her hand, then picked up another load of blankets. "Think this will be enough for everyone?"

Dougal recoiled, as if she had just emerged out of a thicket like some kind of savage animal.

" _Uch_. Seriously? Princess, you look terrible."

"It's _Merida,_  and thanks. So do you."

"I look radiant," he retorted flatly. "Don't take this the wrong way, but you look like something chewed you up, thought better about it, and spat you out."

"Was there a right way to take that?"

He pulled her aside, one hand on her shoulder, and leaned in a little too close for comfort. Glaring, Merida pushed against him weakly, but Dougal stood firm, studying her sternly under long dark lashes. Concern briefly ghosted across his handsome face, and he lifted a hand to her clammy forehead with a grimace.

"Look at you, you're all... well, sweaty and disgusting." He wiped his hand on his plaid. "A delicate lass shouldn't run around this way _helping_ people. Besides, the only thing you'll achieve is makin' everybody else sick. I mean, did yeh even stop to think about me? If I weren't so excessively manly, I'd probably catch your cold myself." He smiled wickedly, stepping closer. "Of course.. there are certain methods of catching a cold I wouldn't be opposed to..."

Irritation bubbled up inside of her.

"Dougal," she smiled all too sweetly, pushing him non-too-gently away, "I'd sooner give you the plague before a kiss."

The laird gave an exasperated sigh as she marched angrily away from him. "What? _What?_  All I'm saying is a real lady should'nae be carryin' out menial chores. It's demeaning. People _talk_. Say _things_. With _words_." He caught up with her, ignoring the exasperated look on the Princess's face and attention he'd managed to draw from gossiping onlookers. "Look, when we're married-"

"Oh-HO! Excuse me? _When??_ " Merida barked a laugh. "You've been drinkin' on an empty head again, haven't you?"

Dougal merely waved her off with an airy hand. "You might as well face it, Princess. We're stuck with each other. Who else are you going to marry? Ship's sailed with MacGuffin. He's smitten with this new lady love of his," he grunted, rolling his eyes at the ceiling, utterly oblivious to the way Merida's eyes hardened at the mention of Connall's recent adventures in courting. "So unless you fancy marryin' Colin..." Again, Dougal waggled his thick bushy eyebrows at her suggestively. He clearly thought it was an endearing trait. It wasn't. Again he leaned in close to her ear, pouting. "Poor wee Colin is  _awfully_ fond of you. And Lady Dingwall has a lovely ring to it, don't you think?"

Dougal jutted his too long chin across the hall to the young laird in question and Merida made the fatal mistake of following suite. Right on queue, she caught Young Dingwall's watery gaze and her heart sank. The young man's vague expression immediately lit up like a new fire; he stood and began a slow plod towards her through the crowded hall.

Merida panicked. "Aw jings crivens- now you've done it. Get out ma' way!"

She shouldered roughly past Dougal, who wobbled, overbalanced and promptly toppled legs over arse with all the dignity of a drunk goat. Merida didn't stop to gloat- she was too busy searching for a place to avoid Colin's excessive shows of affection (he'd given her a rash the last time he'd lavished his wet kisses all over her hand, and she'd had about all she could take of his courting sonnets). She didn't get far before colliding with something broad and solid.

"Oof!" she grunted; the force of the crash nearly knocked her off her feet, but in an instant broad hands had caught her elbows, keeping her steady. Fearing the worst, Merida hazarded a sheepish look upwards. But to her surprise it wasn't her father's face looking down at her, but a red faced young man who looked flustered at the armful of red-haired Princess he'd unexpectedly received upon entering the hall.

 _And MacGuffin makes three,_  her mind supplied ruefully.

But she was a little relieved to see him in person. Closer up, the young man was in far better shape than he had been a few days ago, but that wasn't saying much. The bruising that ran from cheek to temple was turning an ugly mix of purple and yellow, and there was a bloody gash on his forehead which had been hastily bandaged up - probably by his own hands by the look of it. He'd changed a little over the past year, too. He still wore his cornflower hair in two braids, but a light beard now covered his gently squared jaw. His kind eyes were still hasty to meet her own though, slipping away from her almost immediately. What was it about her that made him so twitchy and uncomfortable?

"Princess ah'm sae sorry," he stammered, releasing her arms gently, "are yeh okay?"

Merida's hands were still braced against the man's stomach where, to her horror, she realised she had left a smear of snot upon their collision.

"Uhm, no don't be daft- I'm fine, really, it was my own fault. I didn't see you there."

Connall scuffled his feet and grinned. "Well that's a first, Princess. Ah'm a big man tae miss."

Merida felt her face break out in a warm smile, feeling full of affection for the big man. Thinking nothing of it, she laid her hand on his forearm, squeezing fondly. "Well we did. Miss you, that is. I'm glad to see you're safe and well, proud Connall of MacGuffin stock," she teased.

It was the first time she had ever addressed him by his given name, a fact that would have escaped her attention were it not for the look of shock and embarrassment that spread its way across the poor man's face like wildfire. Mentally, Merida cursed herself. She was always making social faux pas, no matter how many times her mother schooled her on the proper etiquette of a young, unwed lady - particularly if said unwed young lady also happened to be an un-chaperoned Princess. And never mind MacGuffin, Merida thought with a wince; her mother would have kittens if she ever saw the way Dougal had carried on with her!

She snatched her hand back a little too fast not to be suspicious and babbled loudly, "A-And yer father too, of course, I was concerned for him also, I mean of we were all worried about you! I wasn't worried more than most or anything, I just.. worried the .. natural amount." She cleared her throat and gave a short, royal nod. "Yes."

What. Was. _That_?

Merida felt herself flush from root to tip. A few of the people milling about the hall had stopped to stare at her little outburst, snickering amongst themselves. Well, it was always good to have an audience to her embarrassing blunders. It had to be the lingering effects of fever. That would explain the word vomit too. Where else could that mortifying display have come from? She gave the young lord a sheepish look. Connall, gods bless him, only smiled warmly, a glorious smile that lit his features up like a sunrise. Sweetly, shyly, he took a careful step back, creating a more respectful space between them and gave her a short bow.

Something in her chest fluttered.

"Thank you, M'lady. That means a great deal tae-" Connall suddenly gave her a long, strange look, frowning. "Forgive me, Princess, but ah heard ye wir no weil. Is it wise tae be footerin' aboot doun 'ere takin' care o' the sick while yer no weil yerself? Shouldn't ye be weil beddit?"

Merida blinked, cocking her head to one side. "Ehhh... Something about a wheel?"

Connall sighed, looking frustrated with himself. Taking a breath, his face turned contemplative and he began again, more slowly this time. "When ma' fither an' I arrived the other night, they told us you'd taken tae yer bed. Beggin' yer pardon, but you're no' lookin' yer normal cheery self. Should ye no be in bed restin'?"

"Oh. Right." Dismay settled in the pit of her stomach and she tucked a strand of lank hair behind one ear, feeling suddenly painfully self-conscious. "I keep telling everyone I'm fine. Just caught a cold in the rain, that's all."

Connall didn't look convinced, but before he could protest, Dougal firmly inserted himself between them, clapping a hand down on his friend's broad shoulder.

"Connall! Good t' see you out an about. How's the head?"

Connall took Young MacIntosh's arm fondly, returning the greeting by clapping a hand on his friend's shoulder. The force of it made Douga's eyes water.

"Ach, cannae complain." Connall laughed quietly. "Wee bit o' a bump on the heid ne'er did anyone nae 'arm."

"No idea what you just said, but good t' hear you! We were almost worried for a minute." Dougal elbowed the larger man, with a teasing look, and winked. "Some mair than maist, from what I hear of the rumours. It's about time you bedded a sweet lass."

Connall's ears turned pink and his eyes darted to Merida then flitted to the floor, but he said nothing. Somehow that irked Merida more. She shot Dougal a sharp look; suddenly she had an overwhelming urge to kick him.

"Dougal sobbed his heart out like a wee bairn when he thought you weren't comin' back," she remarked icily.

"What?!" Dougal squawked as Connall's face lit up again.

"Away an' boil yer heid, ye never did? Were ye really greetin' fer me?"

"Shut your traps!" Dougal thrust his oversized nose into the air and folded his skinny arms with an arrogant swish of his long dark tresses. "MacIntosh men don't cry! Only soppy red-haired lassies do."

Connall and Merida shared a smiling look; for all his pride, it didn't take much to break Dougal's glass ego.

"My lady, Merida!" cried Colin breathlessly, having finally found them again in the crowded hall.

"Oh bollocks," she muttered under her breath, before turning to face the wee Dingwall with a tired smile. "Good afternoon, Colin."

It wasn't that she disliked Colin Dingwall. He was a bit dighted and away with the faeries at the best of times, but when something spurned him into action, the young man could be fiercely motivated. Unfortunately, his current motivation seemed involve his infatuation with her. Too bad he looked like a wet chinless fish.

"M'lady," he gushed, sweeping kisses up her arm, "my heart is warmed to see you up and about again. It would please me greatly if you would listen to my latest ballad. It concerns the deepest depths of yer storm blue eyes, and the wild torrents hidden within," he said, procuring a small lyre from seemingly nowhere.

Merida felt her smile wilt to a grimace. _Where had he been keeping that?_

"Ah-aactually-" She slipped away and grabbed the first excuse she could find, which happened to be Young MacGuffin's arm. Her stomach flipped. Connall too nearly jumped at the unexpected contact, but Merida was already steering them both towards the open door leading out into the courtyard before he could protest. "I'm afraid I already promised Young MacGuffin here I would show him around the grounds for the celebrations planned. But I'm sure Dougal would love tae hear your music. Did you know the lyre is the MacIntosh crest? He's a _big_ fan."

Behind them Dougal was spluttering in outraged protest, but Merida and Connall were already walking out the open doors and into the courtyard, where the Samhain festivities were in full swing all the way up the sloping hill to high green.

"Sorry about that." She grinned up at him. "S'pose that was a wee bit rude of me."

"Nae problem, M'lady. I un'erstand," Connall stammered, avoiding her gaze and scratching the back of his neck. She was finding it was a much more endearing trait than Dougal's waggling eyebrows. "Wee Dingwall can be a character sometimes."

"Well, thank you for going along with it anyway."

"Mmh."

Connall's voice was strained. He didn't look her in the eye and the relative ease of their conversation became stilted, just as it always had done on the rare occasions they found themselves alone together, away from Colin and Dougal's company.

She tried to lighten the air between them with a laugh, anything that would make him warm him to her a little. "Nothing against Wee Dingwall, but I dinnae think my sore head could take another one of his recitals about the ocean depths of my eyes."

"Don't forget yer 'long fiery tresses'," he added, chuckling.

She pulled a face. " _Ugh_. How could I?"

"In his defence I'd have tae agree wae him. Ah've always thought they're yer bonniest feature."

Her heart tripped. Before she could fully register the honest compliment, Connall released her arm and stepped away, once again careful to put an appropriate distance between them. The loss of his body heat by her side made her shiver a bit in the chill afternoon air.

Merida hesitated, then tentatively asked, "I could show you about if you like?” She aimed for a casual shrug. “Mother seems to have pulled out all the stops this year, which I guess has been a bit of a blessin' in disguise. After all, we weren't expectin' guests." She laughed, while mentally kicking herself. _Not the time to joke, not the time to joke_. She tried to divert, clearing her voice. "Anyway, I may as well do what I told poor wee Dingwall I would."

But she could tell Young MacGuffin's attention was barely on her. His eyes kept flitting to the small round tent where she knew the strange party that had rescued him were staying, rarely roaming beyond the threshold.

His next words came as no surprise. He took her hands in his, and for a moment Merida could only marvel at how small her own hands looked in his.

"Thank you fer the kin' offer, Princess, but ah'm afraid I 'ave tae decline. You should be takin' care o' yerself." He gave her a wry look. "Yeh think I cannae see you shiverin', like?"

"It's just a cold," she said stubbornly. "I don't know why everybody's frettin'."

Connall shook his fair head, laughing like the answer was obvious. "Well. Anyway. I only came int' the hall tae look fer yer fither. Ah'd best be gettin' back tae-" He stopped himself short and his eyes slid away from her. "...Ah best be gettin' back."

He gave her one last shy smile and Merida had the strangest urge to stop him. But before she could collect her scattered thoughts, Connall bowed deeply and was gone.

 

 

**oOo**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Samhain: Pronounced sow-in. One of the two most important points in the Celtic calendar (the other being Beltane). Samhain marks the end of harvest and summer, and the beginning of the dark half of the year. In Scotland it was said the Cailleach ruled from this point on. It was during Samhain that the veil between this world and the next was said to lift. Halloween and Bonfire Night/Guy Fawkes has its roots in Samhain. The lighting of fires was especially important.  
> Deuchainn: Halloween traditions often involved fortune telling, usually to do with who your future partner would be.
> 
> The Muckle Mested Stoor Worm: The stoor worm was an enormous sea serpent from a well known Scottish fairytale, "Assipattle and the Stoor Worm".  
> Mair than maist: More than most.  
> Whit: What  
> Greetin': Crying
> 
> MacGuffin translations  
> I'm not going to have MacGuffin speak too much Doric/Old Scots in this fic because I think it might put people off, and I'd rather focus on plot/character than this running gag. But at the same time I do love Doric, so there will be bits and pieces. I promise to always provide a translation!
> 
> 1: "Yeh shouldnae be footerin' aboot doun 'ere takin' care o' the sick while yer no well yerself, ma lady." trans: You shouldn't be messing around down here, my lady. You should be resting in bed."


	5. A Dance Below the Gallows Tree

 

_an evil eye was on you,_

_a wicked mouth has cursed you,_

_an envious heart would harm you_

_a crooked mind would eat you up_

  
-Carmina Gadelica, 1900

**oOo**

 

Queen Elinor didn't have quite the lung capacity to match her husband's. After all, Fergus was roughly the size and shape of a bull, and moved with a similar gait. In almost comical contrast, Elinor's frame was slender and elegant, and each step she took was made with the same near scientific precision she conducted the workings of Kingdom and court. You'd be forgiven for assuming Fergus, with his wild red hair and several times broken nose, would cut the more intimidating figure.

You would of course be wrong.

“ **FERGUS!** ”

The Queen of Dunbroch's voice thundered through the corridors, like a master calling their hounds to heel, causing servants to scatter and shrink into the walls as she strode by.

With a flurry of green skirts, she whirled through the doorway of their shared chambers with a look that was one part relief, two parts exasperation.

“Auch, _there_ you are.”

Fergus was sitting hunched over at the foot of their bed, head hanging low and wringing his hands. Without breaking stride, Elinor crossed the room towards him. "I've been looking all over for you, you big lummox! What have you been doing? Oh forget it, just get a move on. The people are waiting and the festivities have already begun. You really should have been there to announce them, you know," she tsked, licking her fingers to smooth down her husband's feral eyebrows and trying in vain to smarten up his appearance.

Something wasn't right. Fergus normally complained more bitterly at her fussing over him than either Merida or the boys did. She paused, rocking back on her heels to observe her husband with a concerned eye. The hand that had been smoothing down his eyebrows, moved to cup his ruddy cheek. "Fergus?"

“I'll be down in a minute, love.” He petted her hand and gave a forced smile, but did not fully meet her eyes. “You go ahead an' light the Bonfire. You'll do a better job than me anyway. I'll just muck everythin' up."

Elinor's expression softened, even as she huffed with impatience. "Oh don't flatter me, you know I am impervious to such fluff and frippery."

She knelt in front of him, clasping his hands in hers. The contrast between them was stark. Fergus's hands were large and leathery, pocked with scars and battle-seasoned. Elinor's were slender and pale, but her grip on him was steady, reassuring.

Elinor really was a grand leader, he thought, gazing down at her with pride. Then his gaze fell away from her again. Truth be told, he didn't feel worthy of his wife in that moment.

"I went too far," he admitted, quietly.

Elinor knew he was referring to their daughter. She brushed a thumb across his knuckles with a smirk. "Oh you always go too far, but it's never too late to turn around. I should know. Not only is your wife gifted with a superior intellect and boundless wisdom, she also happens to be speaking from experience." A hand came up to brush through the wiry hairs of his beard, heather-red running into grey at the jawline. "Talk to her, dear. It's no use lollygagging up here feelin' sorry for yourself."

Fergus huffed, moodily. "Ach, what's the point? She'll no listen, Elinor. She's stubborn as a bloody mountain goat. Once she gets an idea stuck in her head it's all, keech, bum, toley, farts t' the wind."

"I swear I still don't know what you're talking about half the time," she deadpanned. "And besides, you've got a cheek calling our daughter stubborn. You still believe in the Yule Haggis."

"It's  _real!_ " Fergus protested. "I saw it with me own eyes!"

"Aye, you and a bottle of whisky maybe."

He pouted. "Well we're no talkin' about that," he replied sniffily, with a little bit of a pout. "Merida thinks magic can solve the problems it began in the first place. She won't listen tae sense!"

"Och, you're talking rubbish, Husband. Since when did you care about sense?" she said, with a smiling roll of her eyes. "Listen to me, that girl of ours hangs off your every word, you _know_ she does. What Merida's feeling now is _guilt_. You have to make her see you don't hold her accountable." She drew him such a pointed look it would have skewered an average man straight through. "Anyway, it's no good pouring your heart out to me."

Elinor wasn't given to pitying people. It wasn't that she was unsympathetic exactly, she just didn't see the point. The only thing pity ever did was waste precious time. But as Fergus knelt on the floor in front of her, bracing his hands on her slim shoulders and fixing her with one of his wide-eyed, vulnerable looks, she couldn't help but feel a little tug in her chest.

"I nearly lost you, love. _All_ of you,” his voice trembled, soft brown eyes flickering almost nervously over her. “Ah've lost friends, family and fine men tae war. Death is hard, but every time you lose a loved one the grave takes a wee bit o' yer heart doon with 'em. But to think that _I_ could'a been the one tae strike you down with ma' ane blade?" He raised a scarred hand to stroke her cheek. "I'm scared, Elinor. Ah'm so scared of losin' yeh again. Scared of losin' all of you. I can fight men, I can even fight monsters. But magic?" Fergus shook his head. "Bloody hell, how can I protect you from somethin' I never believed in til it was nearly too late?"

"I know, love. I know," she whispered, leaning into his touch. From their very first encounter, Elinor remembered being surprised by the way his large hands were so unexpectedly gentle and cautious, like he was afraid she would break if he held her too tight. But Elinor was made of much stronger stuff. She placed her hand over his, gripping him tightly. "But living life in fear is'nae living. That's why you did all you could to unite the clans. That's why the Lords made you their king. And it is why," Elinor pressed her forehead against his, breathing him in deep with a teasing grin, "against all rational thought and common sense, I fell in love with you. You stubborn old lughead."

Fergus laughed. "Ah beg yer pardon, me?  _Old_??"

"Aye. You. _Old,_ " she retorted with a glare, secretly happy to see some of the tension ease out of her husband's shoulders. Then Elinor rose to her feet, drawing herself up until her back was perfectly straight and proud, before reaching down for his hand. "Now, enough of the chit-chat. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and get a move on. We have the end of harvest to celebrate."

"Well, when you put it like that..."

Fergus accepted her proffered hand and, standing, used it to pull her against him into a fierce embrace. His Queen gave a squeak of surprise, slapping him on the chest, before finally relaxing into his arms. Grinning at the victory, Fergus leaned down to give her a long and thorough kiss, and Elinor allowed herself to sink into him further, letting him envelop her, breathing him in. She knew how lucky she had been to fall in love with what had begun as nothing more than a political match. Fergus had become more than just her husband and King; he was her lover, her best friend and confidante – not to mention a constant source of exasperation and permanent thorn in her backside.

After too long a moment than suited her tight schedule, Elinor pretended to sputter in outrage, pushing at his barrel-like chest ineffectually. "I mean it! Get a move on. Everyone is waiting on the games field for their King. The cattle have all been moved down to the winter pastures and the people are tired and want to enjoy the festivities.” She prodded an accusatory finger into his chest, while her husband rolled his eyes at her lecturing. “They can't officially start that without you, Fergus. Not to mention, it is the _King's_ duty to light the neap-fires."

Suddenly Fergus looked thoughtful. He nodded his head slowly at first, then faster as if mentally approving a plan he had been mulling over.

"Actually," he began conspiratorially, eyes twinkling, "I think it's about time I passed that particular honour down the line, don't you?"

 

 

**oOo**

 

The second night of Samhain festivities were in full swing on the games field by the time Merida left the castle to join in. But as she arrived, she cast a studious eye over the bustling crowds with a puzzled frown.

Her father was nowhere in sight.

Quietly, Merida swore under her breath and kicked the dirt. Why couldn't she have come later, when her Da' had already made his speeches and lit the bonfire, and she could have sauntered along after, like she didn't care?

Merida blew hot air into her fingers and rubbed them together, trying to ignore her prickling irritation. A cloudless night had crept up and the air was bitingly cold, the smell of snow drifting in on the edges. Everything on the games field shimmered with a soft, glowing firelight, like flecks of gold glittering against the frost. Candles burned in every open tent and stall, their weaving smoke mixing woozily with the smells of sizzling meats, baking bread, and well-trodden grass. Fast music played, folk danced, and the clans rough-housed, challenging each other to one ridiculous show of strength after another: stone lifting, hammer throws, caber tossing. At one point a wild game of shinty broke out, scattering teeth across the grass like skittles.

A group of old folk sat around a small fire at the far end of the field, grinding grain on the Quern stones. Merida remembered how the same old folk used to cast runes on Samhain, but rune casting had been forbidden in the years since the Bear Curse had befallen Queen Elinor.

Her conscience gnawed at her.

 _"Have you come to nurse yer guilt tae keep it warm?"_ the witch's jibe rang in her mind.

Merida snuffed it out like a candle.

With the King's absence, the central bonfire hadn't been lit yet. It was the duty of each clan leader to light the three fires on each consecutive night of Samhain. The first fires - or Neap fires - were considered sacred, and on the third night of the festival the virgin flame would be taken from it and passed from house to house around the town. Legend held that the flame was kept burning all year round on a single torch said to have been first lit at the union of the four clans. Mind you, legend had it the MacGuffin clan took out hundreds of Dingwall warriors with one mouldy potato and a battered old cauldron. Or something like that. Merida tended to drift off during her mother's history lectures.

Despite the bitter cold, the atmosphere on the games field was warm and full, like a sated belly. Thick furs and hot ale kept the worst of the chill out. Merida herself wore a heavy dress of dark blue skirts and a woollen tartan plaid, pinned at the nape of her neck by a silver brooch enamelled with the Dunbroch arms. But despite the layers, she still felt weak from the fever, and the grim news from the north, along with her father's hard words, hung heavy on her heart. Saving her strength, she watched the games enviously from the sidelines, and occasionally mingled with familiar faces from Dunbroch and neighbouring lands.

On one stall, a selection of honeyed apples and sugar buns were laid out in a mouth-watering spread. Merida eyed them greedily. Taking advantage of the bustling crowds, she slipped to the front of the stall. Her nimble fingers made short work of snatching up a bun, and she twirled away with her bounty, victorious.

Merida was chewing open-mouthed on the doughy bun and licking sticky fingers when she bumped into Young MacIntosh. Evidently she had interrupted the young Lord in the middle of wooing a number of ladies with a show of his flexing biceps. The blushing girls quickly disbanded upon Merida's arrival, muttering and casting reproachful looks at the Princess for intruding on their time with the handsome heir. Merida felt her gut tighten as the girls passed by. She had always found it hard to connect with people her age. Most young women in the Dunbroch clan were married, apprenticed, or, like Nessa, in service to the royal family. Her closest friendships had always been with Angus or her family, but lately she had started to yearn for something more. Someone outside her family, who could talk to her, share their own hopes and fears - the kind she could never dare tell her family.

She sighed. For now, she'd just have to make do with this lanky creep.

Dougal was giving her a critical once over, wincing with one dark eyebrow cocked in disgust at the sugary crumbs scattered down the front of her dress.

" _Really_?"

Merida took a large, defiant bite. "Really."

"Well thanks a lot, _Princess,_ " he huffed. "I was about to get more than a dance wi' one of them 'til you came along."

"Ach, no you weren't. Here. Have a peace offering," she said, spraying his face with bits of soggy dough, and offered the remaining bun. "Go onnn. They're _yummy_."

"Eh, no. I'll pass." Dougal regarded the half-chewed offering with disgust, wiping his cheek clean with a delicate finger. "Besides, watching you stuff your massive gob is enough to put anyone off their tea."

Merida shrugged. "Your loss."

"Fit ye like, Dougal?" came a deep voice from behind her. "When a lady offers ye a favour, ye dinnae turn it doun."

Merida nearly jumped a foot in the air. She wasn't sure how Young MacGuffin managed to be so light on his feet, but considering this was the second time in a day he'd managed to sneak up on her, she was starting to think he was part wild cat. She might even have shared this with him if she hadn't just inhaled the rest of her bun in surprise.

Connall's eyes grew wide and panicked as Merida coughed and clawed at the air, dramatically.

"Are yeh awrite, Princess?! Kin a give ye a hand, like??"

Before Merida could protest through watery eyes and wheezing coughs that she really, _really_ didn't want his help, the young lord was slapping her on the back in what he probably thought was a gentle tap, but almost sent her tripping head first into the mud. To add to her further mortification, as she stumbled forward his strong hands caught her neatly around the waist -  _all_ the way around, the fingers of MacGuffin's large hands meeting tip to tip and thumb to thumb. Her breath hitched as heat spread from her belly to the tips of her ears and toes. Heart hammering, Merida barely noticed the way she instinctively leaned into Connall's hands. Tension rippled through her then. What was going on with her? If the heat from Connall's hands didn't drive her crazy, the tickle of his breath against her neck surely would.

"Ah'm so sorry, ah'm such a big lummox - are yeh ok, Princess?" Connall spluttered as he righted her, unclasping his hands from her waist, accent thickening with distress. He laughed nervously. "Guess I still dinnae ken mah own strength..."

Merida tried to wave him off. Her throat no longer burned with half-chewed, half-inhaled bun, but she could still feel the heat of the Connall's now absent hands around her waist. The nape of her neck prickled at the memory. She closed her eyes against the strange feeling, full of frustration.

"I swear you lot will be the death of me," she muttered, as Connall knelt towards her again.

"Here, let me jist-"

He began brushing the crumbs from her dress, oblivious to the way Merida's face turned such a deep red it almost matched her face. Not to mention that this was yet more wholly inappropriate, un-chaperoned public contact and if Merida had been in the possession of such delicate sensibilities she might have cared. Instead she rather enjoyed the handling.

The tips of her ears burned as she processed her own thoughts.

" _MacGuffin_ ," she tried to sound firm, but her voice was cracking with laughter. "I'm no' a horse so you can stop grooming me like one."

He froze. "What? Oh.  _Oh!_ " He jerked his hands back as he finally took notice of their closeness; close enough that he could see the scatter of pale freckles across her face and the laughter now dancing in her eyes, eyebrows scrunched together in bemusement. His cheeks grew red and he stumbled back with another round of excessive apologizing. "Sorry! That wis- ah didnae mean-!"

Merida couldn't help it. MacGuffin was so very large and at first glance you might even think him gruff, but the look of wide-eyed horror in his eyes contrasted so comically that she doubled over with laughter.

"Well I'm glad t' find you think me so funny," he grumbled with a little pout that only made her laugh more. 

"I'm sorry, it's just you looked so-"

"Pathetic," Dougal supplied for her, having watched the performance with the smug git look of a cat who had stumbled upon a chick fallen from its nest. "The Kingdom's going to burn to ash and bone with you two leading yer clans. Yeh do ken social mores exist for a reason?"

Sometimes Merida wanted to wipe that snake-like sneer from Dougal's face. Preferably with her fist.

"It's a wonder you're still alive, MacIntosh. I thought your clan would have lobbed that head off your shoulders by now for being a beaky wee prick," she snapped.

Dougal puffed up like a peacock itching for a fight. "Is that any way to talk to your future husband?"

"Auch just, do us all a favour and quit it."

"Quit what?!"

"That." She gestured at all of him. " _All o' that_."

Dougal shot her a smug grin and flicked his hair. "Don't go havin' a go at me for helpfully pointing out your disastrous qualities, Princess. Makin' a fool out yourself is what you deserve _when you inhale yer food like an animal_." He snorted back a laugh. "Honestly, keep that up and no one's gonnae marry you. Not even me."

Merida pursed her bottom lip at him. "Oh no, that'd be dreadful."

"Nithin' wrong with havin' a healthy appetite," said Connall kindly, shooting her a wink.

Merida grinned back. "Nope," she agreed, purposefully popping the 'P' at Dougal to irritate him, "Allowances for social mores should be made when I'm hungry.  _Aa man maun hae mait!_ "5

She missed the look of sheer delight on Young MacGuffin's face at her use of his native Doric tongue.

"Aye, a _man_ ," Dougal drawled, then cast a critical eye on his large friend, adding, "And just how many appetites do you have, MacGuffin?"

Connall gave a good-natured shrug. "More thin mi fair share, but no more than could compare wi' the size of yer big heed, MacIntosh."

Merida snorted. Few could get away with talking to Dougal MacIntosh that way without being biffed on the nose. She counted herself among the few with pride - not that he would dare try - and so, it seemed, did Connall. The heirs of MacIntosh and MacGuffin had formed a strong bond over the years, despite their wildly different personalities. Mind you, Dougal was a bit of a coward when it came down to it. She couldn't imagine the wiry man willingly taking the larger MacGuffin on without a stiff drink first.

Together, the three of them wandered around the high green, enjoying good-natured jibes and testing their skills at the games. When they arrived at the archery point, Merida couldn't resist taking a turn herself. Taking up a stance, she let one arrow fly after another, striking the targets dead centre each time. Shyly, Connall declined her offer to teach him.

"Oh come on, it's no that hard. Here," she beckoned him over, one hand on his forearm. "I'll show you. Just aim, it sounds simple but you can't expect to hit something you're not looking at. Feet apart, aye like that. And draw the string all the way back to the corner of your smile, good, and let it go just like-"

There was a sad little ping as Connall let the arrow fly and the three of them watched as it missed the target by several feet and disappeared over the cliff.

"- _that._ Uhm..." Her eyebrows rose and Connall groaned beside her. "Well... At least you have good reach? _Shut up, Dougal_."

"I didn't say anything," Dougal replied, leaning on his own bow with an almost feline smirk. "Now let me show you how a _real_ archer does it, pal." He patted Young MacGuffin's shoulder once, before sauntering off towards the far targets, leaving them alone.

With a faint sigh, Connall held out the bow to her. "Ah really don' think this is ma' kind o' weapon."

Merida gave him a hard but secretly amused look. "What, do you think you're going to be a pro just like that? Nobody starts off good, MacGuffin. You know that yourself. I've seen you caber tossing at the games."

He looked genuinely surprised. "Ye 'ave?"

"Aye, an' you're good. _Really_ good. And I'm willing to bet you didn't just become strong overnight."

"No." He nodded, laughing softly. "Actually it was ma' mither that taught me."

Now it was her turn to look surprised. "Oh. _Wow_." She paused. "Well... Maybe I could give you a few lessons on how to shoot?"

"Ah couldn't ask that of ye."

"You're not asking. I'm offering. Now, come here," she ordered, tugging him by his elbow until she stood flat against his side. She tried to ignore the way he tensed beneath her touch. "You're right handed, aye? Okay, left foot forwards and square your stance, like this." Stepping away, she took up a stance, feet apart and centred. "Take a breath. When you release it, let your shoulders and hips roll down towards your feet. You want to centre your weight. Don't hunch in on yourself. Flatten your back - aye, that's better, like that. Now..." Merida took a careful breath and stepped up beside him once more. She placed a hand over his where he held the bow, and instantly felt Connall's breath hitch. "Don't grip the bow too tight. Get used to the weight of it and keep yer grip steady. If you hold too tightly the pressure will affect the direction of yer shot."

"Erm, r-right."

She smirked. "Don't look so scared."

"Ah'm not," he muttered, frowning.

Grinning, Merida ducked under his drawing arm so that she now stood encircled by Connall's arms.

"Okay, now ah am," he stuttered.

Merida glanced up at him teasingly. "Good." She set about arranging his arms, raising his bow arm at the elbow and correcting his stance. And so what if it gave her a twinge of satisfaction now that the tables had turned and she had him in her hands. It was only fair play; it didn't _mean_ anything. "Keep your bow arm straight, but not rigid."

"L-Like this?"

"Aye, that's more like it. But don't be afraid of your strength when you pull back on the string - not too high, but just to the corner of your, wait- no, here." Chuckling at the puzzled look on Connall's face, Merida reached out her thumb to brush the corner of his lips. "Right about.. here."

Their eyes met as her thumb swept across the soft hairs around his upper lip, all straw gold touched with silver moonlight. Connall's round eyes betrayed his nervousness, but there was something else there too; a headiness in his gaze she wasn't ready for. Or was that just her own reflection?

She cleared her throat loudly and tried to ignore the way her cheeks flushed with colour. Pushing a coil of hair behind her ears, she ducked out of his arms and made a valiant attempt at sounding professional.

"That's the basics anyway. Getting your stance right is the hardest part. Practise isn't much good if you don't have the technique down."

For a minute, Connall just looked at her as if he were trying to figure her out. The weight of his gaze on her, confused but soft and thoughtful, made Merida want to crawl out of her skin and disappear after his arrow over the cliffside.

"Thank ye, Princess, but..." He lowered the bow and arrow to his side, a wry half-formed smile on his lips. "D'you remember that time a few year ago? Jist after the Bear Curse? Ye tried to hold a class for the three of us then, tae. It didnae end well, if ah recall right." He drew her a meaningful look. "Which is tae say it ended when one o' my arrows found its target up Lord Dingwall's arse."

"I'd forgotten all about that!" she laughed, clutching her stomach. "Ah thought he was gonnae start a war over that!"

"Aye! He almost did! If it hadn't been fer yer mother ah think he might have tossed me into the sea."

They laughed together for a while, lingering on the edge of the games field. The light of the fires on the green didn't quite reach the corner where they stood, close to the archery targets, but it was dark enough that the moon and stars glowed like wisps against the night sky, casting everything in a pearlescent glow. Merida let her eyes wander among the twinkling specks. A peaceable silence passed between them as they stood listening to Dougal throw a spectacular tantrum when his tenth arrow failed to match any of hers. She leaned on her own bow, shaking her head.

"It's like having a bloody toddler."

Connall chuckled. "Ah'd say that's an insult tae toddlers."

"Hmm. Probably right."

He looked at her askance. "He's no' as bad as aw that, though. Dougal's got a gid heart despite aw his-"

"Dougalness?"

Connall winced. "Yeh should go easy on him, Princess. He does care deeply for yeh. Anyone wae eyes can see it."

"So I keep hearing." Merida groaned. "But even if that's so, I don't owe him anything. Least not ma' heart."

"Yer right. It doesn't."

"But?"

"Nae buts. If anyone knows their ane heart, Princess, it's you." After a moment, he added softly, "Thank yeh fer tryin' to teach me how tae shoot. Still no' sure a bow's the right kind of weapon fer me though." Connall grinned. "Or mibbe ah'm no the right man fer it?"

Merida shot him a sideways glance. "Oh I'm no' done with you yet, MacGuffin. If I failed t' teach you how to shoot, ah'd bring shame down on the Dunbroch clan and my reputation as best archer in the kingdom would be ruined."

Connall laughed. "Oh aye? Well, guess we cannae have that."

"No," she said, stepping in front of him to press a finger against his chest sternly, "we can't." 

A look of sincere fondness filled the young lord's face as he smiled at her, shaking his head.

"Yer a hard teacher, Princess. But yer also the bonniest ah've ever had."

Merida blinked. It was unexpected, the sudden compliment had thrown her.

"You think I'm pretty?"

She looked up at him, feeling uncharacteristically hesitant as the question hung between them. For a flash moment Connall looked almost pained, like the words had caught in his throat. He took a step forward and then stopped abruptly and looked down at her, not moving at all. 

"I-"

" _I_ feel embarrassed for both of us right now," Dougal announced loudly. Whether he had noticed the tension in the air or not, he certainly made a point of stepping between them. "Let's get back to the festival. There's nothin' out here."

Connall ducked his gaze, but Merida was painfully aware that she had to lighten the awkward mood between them somehow.

"Well, thank you for the flattering compliment, Lord MacGuffin." She curtsied a little cheekily. Connall's pale eyes peered up at her through straw-coloured lashes, a small wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips. For some reason, Merida felt her stomach swoop and plunge to her kneecaps then, and without meaning to she found herself asking, "Fancy a dance?"

The words were out before she could stop them.

"Well it's about time you asked!" said Dougal haughtily, and began making long strides towards the dance area.

"Not you, yeh nugget!" Merida snapped, then turned to square her shoulders at Young MacGuffin, adopting what she hoped looked and sounded like a perfectly innocent, casual request. "I just thought... I mean, it looks like they're starting up again." She thumbed at the far side of the pyre where a band of musicians were starting up a new number. Young couples were sorting themselves into groups for the next reel. “I wouldn't mind a dance or two.”

Dougal goggled at the Princess, disbelieving, while Connall looked like she'd just asked him to climb the Firefalls in the nuddy.

"Uh, ah'm no viry good, Princess." He chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his neck. "Much as ah 'ate tae admit it, yeh'd be better off dancin' wae this wee skinny malinky."

"Exactly!" Dougal puffed his chest out, then shot his friend a sharp look. "Wait- here, what did you just call me?"

Ignoring them both, Merida rallied her courage and took Connall's arm for the second time that day, leading him boldly towards the ring of excited and nervous couples.

"Och c'mon, don't worry. I'll lead anyway."

"Aye, _I know_ ," Connall protested. "That's wit ah'm afraid of!"

"Sorry, can't understand you," she lied.

As they took up position in the line, across from one another, he drew her a sceptical look. "Uh huh. Somehow ah'm nae sure ah believe you."

The little pout on Connall's face encouraged her further, and as they began a fast paced _Strip the Willow_ , Merida found she very much enjoyed each time they met in the centre of the set to twine hands. For such a large man - though half the size of her father - Connall was actually quite light on his feet, perhaps because he was so aware of his size. Mind you, every time he bumped or brushed against another dancer, he would bow and apologise profusely. Merida couldn't help teasing him for it, just to see that confused and mildly grumpy pout on his face again.

"If ah didna know better ah'd say you were teasin' me again, m'lady."

"Perish the though, m'lord!" Her eyes twinkled at him. "A Princess never teases. How _impertinent_ of you to suggest such a thing."

"My maist sincere apologies, Princess, ah spoke out if place," but the grin on his face was just as teasing.

"Oh aye, now who's being insincere!"

"Never," he replied as the dance ended. "Ah MacGuffin prides himsel' on 'is honesty."

There was something very honest in his eyes right now. They stood a little too close for comfort, hands clasped together at her breastbone. It kept her glued to the spot, unwillingly or unable to let go of the large warm hands in hers. The reel had left them tired and panting, but she had a sense the flutter in her chest was more than her fast heartbeat.

It was funny, in one day she had interacted more with the Young MacGuffin heir than she had in the five years of their acquaintance. There was a curious mix of strength and vulnerability about him, hyper aware of his own physical strength and terrified that he might do harm to those around him. As a result he always seemed to hold back. Even when he swung her around by the waist or twirled her under his arm, she could feel how cautious he was with her, always keeping her at arms length.

She thought back to the day he had shot the arrow at the suitor's games. How laughably out of place Connall had looked back then, wary of the fragile bow in his hands. When he'd let loose his arrow, she had thought the way he'd plucked at the bow-string like a harp had been hysterical.

_"I bet he'd rather be tossing cabers." "Or holdin' up bridges."_

She shook her head warmly at the image and took a step away from him, curtseying.

The next dance moved on to a strathespy. The couples changed and she lost sight of Connall when she partnered with a grim-faced Dougal, followed by an ecstatically pleased Wee Dingwall whose hands were distractingly clammy. But as they danced, she caught Colin Dingwall begin to draw her the oddest of looks, as if he had hit upon some great realisation. Not that she was paying too much attention, for her full focus was once more on Connall.

Or rather, the girl on his arm.

Merida did not doubt that this was the woman Young MacGuffin was said to be courting. Dressed from head to toe in black and grey, bangles clinking along her hem and silver thread in her hair, the woman was nothing short of striking. Her skin was very white, but not a sickly pale. It shone in the moonlight like a string of pearls, a stark contrast against her black hair and eyes - how dark they were, like the peat water at the deepest point of a rock pool.

As the music ended, Merida and Colin rejoined Dougal at the edge of the dance, who was staring openly at the strange beauty in the black dress. She was quite sure Dougal's interest weren't as innocent as her own, however. And her interest _was_ innocent. After all, Young MacGuffin would be her ally one day. Who he chose to court was of particular political importance.

Only Colin seemed unperturbed by the woman on their friend's arm.

"I don't see what all the fuss is about," he drawled, gazing disinterestedly at the couple waltzing on the green.

Dougal scoffed. "You, my friend, are blind. By Bride herself, Miss Annis is some looker," he said admiringly, and not without a touch of envy. "So why's she on that big tumshie's arm? Connall wouldn't know what to do with a lassie if one fell naked into his lap."

"There's an image I'd rather not have," Merida muttered.

“Aye, none of us would,” Dougal agreed sulkily, then waved her silent. " _Shoosh_ , they're coming over."

"Don't you shoosh me!" she growled at him, feeling her temper flare. Irritation prickled along her arms – she couldn't understand why, but every fibre of her repulsed at the idea of facing Young MacGuffin's lover. But the couple were already making their way across the grass towards them.

For the life of her, Merida didn't know why she had taken such a visceral dislike of the poor girl. Maybe it was because, despite her beauty, the girl was in possession of an officious face - the kind you'd never tire of slapping.

"Princess of Dunbroch," the young woman curtsied, smiling too sweetly. "It is an honour to finally meet your acquaintance. I am Annis, daughter of NicNevis. My mother wishes she could be here this evening, but unfortunately she is still to frail to move. The storm has been hard on all of us, of late."

Annis's smile seemed pasted on. Merida thought it was like someone who had only read how to smile from books. The girl's teeth shone a brilliant white and seemed far too many for her small, pinched mouth. Merida couldn't help it – she glowered as Annis extended a shining, long-fingered hand towards her in greeting. The gesture hovered between them for a while, but Merida didn't accept it. She could see the horrified look on Dougal's face at her rudeness, the distress in Connall's eyes. She wanted to stamp her foot in exasperation. Wasn't it obvious to them that this woman's seemingly friendly gesture was nothing but a show? It was patronising, insincere, and clearly meant as a slight!

At least Colin didn't seem to care. He was too busy picking at a patch of dry skin on his nose.

Merida crossed her arms firmly over her chest and gave the girl a long, hard look from head to toe, then said, "So. I suppose you're to thank for rescuing Lord MacGuffin and his eldest son?"

It wasn't a question, and it was about as far from a thank you as whisky was from water. As far as polite society would be concerned, Merida may as well have lodged her boot up the girl's backside.

Connall was staring at her as if she'd lost her mind. Dougal slapped his forehead with a groan. Colin gave a small whoop of delight as he peeled a particularly large strip of dead skin from his nose.

But Miss Annis didn't seem offended. Her smile only uncoiled further, like a snake and twice as slippery. "No gratitude is needed, _Princess_. In fact, it might be said we saved each other, in a sense. My people were trying to outrun the storm too, you see. We would not have known which way to go, if it weren't for Lord MacGuffin and my dear Connall, here."

Merida bristled. Just how close had they become in so short a time to merit this girl's informal use of Young MacGuffin's given name?

"I am very grateful for our meeting," Annis continued, gazing warmly at Connall, her slender arms coiling around his biceps. Affection poured off of her; her smile was radiant and it became very clear _just_ how grateful she was.

Merida wanted to gag at the girl's possessiveness. Was Connall actually buying this?

Annis continued, overly-enthusiastic. "I have heard of your great adventures too, Princess - how your mother transformed into a monster-"

"A bear," Merida bit out, "actually."

"Oh. Isn't that the same thing?"

“Only if you think carrot is the same thing as a shower o' shite,” she replied flatly.

Annis coloured, the apples of her cheeks tinting with a delicate blush. Behind her, Connall groaned silently and Dougal slapped a hand to his forehead. Between them, Wee Dingwall merely smirked. He appeared to be the only one enjoying the show.

Shyly, Annis continued. "My people tell your story often. It must take a very powerful witch indeed to change their own mother into a bear."

That threw her. Merida frowned, puzzled. "I didn't-"

But before she could argue the point, a horn bellowed over the green and caught sight of her mother ushering her over. It was time for the great bonfire to be lit and the Princess was expected at her parents' side for the ritual ceremony her father would carry out.

"Well! Sorry lads," she announced, backing away from her friends and the unwelcome addition, "but Royal duties call!"

"Dinnae fash yerself, Princess,"7 said Connall, then shot her a look of concern and added, "But.. dae us all favour an' try no to fall in the fire this time."

"Aye, don't stuff it up!" Dougal barked after her.

"Away and stuff yerselves!" she hollerred back, before striding over to the three thrones set up at the head of the high green where her mother sat fussing over her father.

Beside them, Hamish, Hubert and Harris occupied a long bench, whispering trade secrets among themselves. At their feet sat their loyal (if thick as mince) wolfhounds, Rory and Rufus, who were howling along to the whine of bagpipes playing. With a fond smile tugging at her lips, Merida took a moment to look at them - her awkward, messy, utterly ridiculous Royal family.

"Mum," Merida greeted, kissing her mother's cheeks, then ruffling her brothers' curly hair one after the other. "Boys."

When she turned, she was standing directly in front of the King's throne, very much occupied (and then some) by Fergus's enormous frame. The chilly night suddenly dipped further as they regarded each other, stonily.

" _Dad_."

" _Merida_."

"Oh, good grief," Elinor muttered into her hand, as her daughter made a stubborn point of heaving her chair to the Queen's side. It was amazing the way her husband and eldest managed to mirror each other perfectly, sitting with arms crossed, thunderous, and staring moodily across the green. "Look at the pair of you. The boys have more maturity in their wee pinkies than the two of you have put together!"

Neither responded, unless you counted the bull-like snort Fergus gave as he leaned into his hand.

Elinor sigh with frustration. Perhaps changing the topic of conversation might sweeten the mood, or at the very least take Merida's attention off her father for the time being.

"So," she began, searchingly. "I see Wee Dingwall still has his heart set on you as ever. I think he's quite sweet, in his own way," she teased her.

There was no response and Merida only continued to scowl. Elinor mentally grasped around for another topic, wildly.

Finally, she remarked with a nod at the crowd, "Would you look at Young MacGuffin's face? What an awful state. They say it's a miracle he's alive, poor lad," she said, piteously. "Heart in the right place, though. You know he hasn't stopped lookin' after his people and his father all day? He'll make a fine clan leader in the future."

Surprisingly, that seemed to strike a chord with her daughter. Elinor watched her features soften a little.

 _Interesting_.

"Aye," Merida nodded, and huffed a laugh. "He sticks out like a sore thumb from his brothers, though."

Elinor inclined her head, accepting her point. It was true enough. The MacGuffin heir was a nice enough young man, but he was the type who merged into the background easily. He never left much of an impression on anyone, least of all her daughter. Until perhaps now, though Elinor doubted there was anything romantic to her daughter's interest. There rarely was. No doubt, his strange adventures had merely caught Merida's imagination. After all, the shy, awkward lad wasn't her daughter's type. While the younger sons of Lord MacGuffin were bold and strong, and had no problem making themselves heard, the eldest had a tendency to make himself as small and invisible as possible - a real feat, given his size. Still, Elinor supposed everyone grew into themselves at their own pace. Young MacGuffin had shown great consideration for his clan and there was still plenty time for him to earn their trust as a leader, if not the hand of her very picky daughter.

That was as unlikely as Merida brushing her locks for once. Despite her high hopes, the Princess had shown little romantic interest in any suitor over the years, except perhaps...

A pause. Elinor looked at her daughter askance, testing the waters, before taking the plunge.

"Young MacIntosh's heart is in the right place, too."

Merida rolled her eyes. "Och, Mum, don't start. It's no' like that."

Elinor drew her a look.

"It's not!" she protested again, then dropped her shoulders with a long-suffering groan. It wasn't the first time she had been accused of enjoying Young MacIntosh's flirtations. "I don't love him. Not like that. An'... besides." Her eyes drifted across the gathering crowds until they narrowed in on a slim, dark-haired figure with a beguiling smile. "There are more things to worry about right now."

Queen Elinor followed her daughter's glare until she found the source of her annoyance.

"Young lady, you've been scowling your head off at that poor girl all evening." Her dark eyebrows rose before her daughter could argue. " _Aye_. Don't think I haven't noticed. Merida, the Lady Nicnevin and her kin are our guests. It's hardly an appropriate way for a Princess to act, goin' about glowering like a thundercloud. If the wind changes your face will stay that way."

"Cannae blame her," Fergus muttered. "Still haven't seen this grand old Queen o' Sheba leave her tent yet. An' if this Lady Nicnevin's _daughter_ is anything tae go by, then I hope she stays there. That Miss Annis has a set o' teeth like a thousand needles."

"Aye, and a face like a skelped arse," Merida added.

He grinned. "Speakin' o' which, someone needs tae remove the poker oot from her behind."

"Wish I'd been the one to stick it there."

Fergus and Merida broke into fits of giggles, then remembered they weren't talking, scowled at each other, and turned away, arms folded.

"Oh for heaven's sake, stop that!" Elinor hissed, despite the smile tugging at her own mouth. "At least put a face on it, people are watching. Oh- _Fergus_! Here come the Lords. Up- _up_!"

"W-Welcome!" the King's voice boomed over the green as he scrambled to his feet. In his hand he raised an enormous burning torch which would soon be put to the bonfire, but he looked wholly uncomfortable. Fergus was a big man, but he was built for battle, not for making pretty speeches. "Welcome, uhh, tae the first- naw, hold on a sec- the sec, the SECOND-"

"To the second night o' Samhain!" Elinor came to his rescue, arms raised wide in greeting to the gathering crowd. "The King and I welcome our clans from the north, east and west. Friends, we invite you all tonight to share our supper table and warm yourselves at our fire. It has been a trying time for all, but tonight we celebrate the successful moving of our herds to the winter pastures!"

The crowds broke into thunderous applause, whoops and cheers, but they quickly silenced when the Queen raised her hand to speak again. "Tonight we light the second bone fire, but first the King wishes to make an announcement." Elinor turned to Fergus, eyes twinkling. "Husband."

"Friends - we are a folk of proud tradition," Fergus began, and the people cheered in agreement, "but tradition has tae start somewhere. As my beloved wife once put it, sometimes tradition must change an' adapt. That's why-" He breathed deeply, looking anxious. "That's why tonight I call upon ma' dear daughter with a request." He turned to look at Merida in the eye, smiling warmly as he extended the torch in his hand towards her. "A request to honour us by lightin' the second fire this night."

Her father's beaming grin was like a sunburst in her chest; a pleasant sort of ache that burrowed deep and relieved a bit of the weight of weariness Merida hadn't realised she'd been carrying around these past few days. As she accepted the torch in both hands, her fingers curled around his for a moment. She squeezed them tightly, and as his left hand came up to cover hers, tears welled in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," he mouthed.

"Thank you," she whispered, hitching back a sob.

Fergus cleared his throat and sniffed loudly, trying to wipe his teary eyes before returning to face the crowd again. Then, spreading his arms wide, he bellowed, "AND NOW-"

"Hold on, Fergus!" Lord MacGuffin interrupted, quickly stepping forward. Behind Alastair stood his five sons, amongst them Connall, who looked like he was trying to disappear into the gathered mass of people behind him. But Merida spotted him easily, grinning as she watched him fidget nervously under the curious gaze of the crowd. Lord MacGuffin did not court or covet attention the way Lords MacIntosh and Dingwall did, but he was still comfortable in its company - something Connall had never grown accustomed to, and it showed. Her smile turned fond, then slipped from her face as she watched Miss Annis rejoin him, sliding a delicate arm under Connall's.

Surprised at the interruption, Fergus gave Lord MacGuffin a puzzled look. "Alastair?"

"Aw, _give us peace_ \- whit's the meanin' of this, MacGuffin?!" Lord MacIntosh complained loudly, while Lord Dingwall kicked the ground in irritation.

"Get on wi' it already and light the bloody thing,” the latter snapped. “Ah'm starvin'! Not to mention, freezin' ma willy off."

"Oh, but this is news you'll like yerselves, lads," the MacGuffin Lord responded with a mysterious grin, and his hand came up to thump Fergus on the back. "Yours is no the only announcement I'd like to share regardin' our kin, Fergus."

The blonde man faced the crowd, and a hushed, anticipatory silence fell over everyone. The people knew of what had befallen the MacGuffin territories, and of the Lord's near fatal escape - the details of which were sketchy at best, leaving the facts of his tale to wild rumour and guesswork.

"As you know, the MacGuffin clan have had a trying time of it. We were set upon by a storm the likes o' which we've never set eyes on a'fore. Many were lost to us, including two o' my dear sons." His eyes lowered and he bowed his head, the grief still visible behind the shaggy beard and heavy brow. "I came very close to losin' another son, and were it not for the quick thinking of the gracious Lady Nicnevin's party, I would have lost him too." He walked towards Connall and Miss Annis, looping his arms over their shoulders in a fierce hug. "And that is why it gives me great pleasure tae announce our two families will viry soon become one. Lady Nicnevin's daughter here, the fair Miss Annis, has agreed to marry ma' boy!"

A wave of enthusiastic cheers rolled over the green, followed by whoops of laughter when Lord MacGuffin pointed at Merida and added, "So Princess, yer off the hook!"

The laughter rang in her ears like the sound of distant waterfalls crashing against rock. She didn't know how she was supposed to feel, only that she shouldn't feel like this: numb, queasy.

The torch in her hand drooped.

Connall kept slipping in and out of sight, surrounded by people patting and thumping him on the back, eager to be the first to congratulate the happy couple. But when she did catch a glimpse of him, the expression he wore didn't quite fit, like old clothes handed down. He smiled weakly as Colin and Dougal jostled him, laughing and shaking his hand in congratulations. Dougal was ruffling his hair when Connall happened to look in her direction. It was a brief moment, probably not more than a couple of seconds, but it was one of those moments when time seems to peel off and everything else freezes. The carefully worn smile he'd dressed himself in fell away when he met her eyes, and Merida saw how the bruising on his temple, purple and livid, had grown darker since the night he'd arrived at Dunbroch. He looked older, tired, hastily stitched together and fraying at the seams. How had she not noticed earlier? Then she wondered how she looked to him in that moment. The thought made her feel bare and uncomfortably exposed. Connall was getting married, her mind repeated; married to the girl with the smile of a thousand bright needles.

It was a good thing, naturally. One less suitor to concern herself with. But instead of relief, she felt empty. Confused, but unwilling or unready to understand why. Doors slammed in her mind. Time snapped into place, and Merida raised the burning torch between them like a barrier-

Which was when a loud crash split the revelries.

A flash like green lightning tore a hole in the celebrations. The crowds scattered wildly, people running terrified from the bright flash across the green. And where the light had struck, totally unharmed and leaning casually on a broomstick, stood the Bear Witch, smiling amiably.

"I'm terribly sorry, your Highness. Please excuse ma' grand entry but," she grinned her lopsided tombstone grin, "well, I do believe my invitation was lost in the mail."

 

**oOo**

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1- "Fit ye like, Dougal? When a lady offers ye a favour, ye dinnae turn it doun."  
> "What are you like, Dougal? When a lady offers you something, you don't turn it down."
> 
> 2- "Are yeh awrite, Princess?" Connall panicked as she coughed and thrashed at the air wildly. "'Ere, let me help."  
> "Are you all right, Princess? Here, let me help."
> 
> 3- "Oh jings tae- ah'm sorry, are yi ok?" He helped her to her feet, his Doric accent thickening in his distress. "Ah'm sae sirry, Princess- ah ne'er meant tae-  
> "Oh jings to - I'm sorry, are you okay? I'm so sorry, Princess- I never meant to-"
> 
> 4- "Aa man maun hae mait!"  
> "A man must eat!"
> 
> 5- "May ah jist say yer lookin' awfie fair this evenin', Princess."  
> "May I just say you're looking very pretty this evening, Princess."
> 
> 6-"Nit that ah'm tryin tae- ah wid never assume-  
> "Not that I'm trying to- I would never assume-"
> 
> 7- "Dinnae fash yerself, Princess,"  
> "It's no trouble, Princess."
> 
> Glossary  
> Nuddy: nude
> 
> Thank you everyone who has been reading/commenting/leaving kudos! I can't tell you how much it means to me. :D One more update before Yule-I mean, Christmas! XD


	6. Monster in the Woods, Pretenders by the Hearth

**Ash 'n Bone**

Monsters in the Woods (Pretenders by the Hearth)

 

 _Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird_ _  
_ _That sings beside thy mate;_ _  
_ _For sae I sat, and sae I sang,_ _  
_ _And wist na o' my fate._

-Burns, Banks o' Bonnie Doon

 

 

The night was filled with panicked screams as people fled the games field, leaving only a handful of stragglers curious or foolish enough to catch a glimpse of the witch's magic first hand.

Nervous, clutching their weapons close, the Lords, their sons, and a number of the King's men cautiously circled the Bear Witch. Their weapons were ready at hand, but the hands that held them shook. To an onlooker, the scene might have looked a tad ridiculous: a dozen or more fierce men, armed to the teeth, surrounding a little old lady whose only weapon appeared to be a battered old broomstick.

King Fergus growled. His normally jovial face was thunderous. With a quick glance at his wife, he saw the recognition and anger on her face he needed to confirm his fears.

“Elinor, get the boys back to the castle.”

Elinor nodded tightly, quickly and carefully guiding the boys away from field, shielding them from the witch with her body. But as she left, she threw the old woman a icy glare that rivalled her husband's, and made no idle threats.

When he was sure they were a safe distance, Fergus took a step closer to the old woman who was waiting patiently on the games field, leisurely plucking at the wiry hairs on her chin.

"Ah'll go ahead an' presume you're the Bear Witch, shall I?" said Fergus in a hard voice, one hand on the heavy hilt of his claymore.

The old woman perked up, looking genuinely please. "Oh, you've heard of me?" she preened, one hand moving up to fluff her hair. “Well, I can't say I'm no flattered.”

Fergus didn't hesitate a moment longer. "MEN-" he bellowed.

"My Lord, I do not come fer a fight. As you can see, I am but a harmless unarmed old lady." She raised her wrinkled hands up to prove her point. In front of her, the broomstick remained standing perfectly upright. "I only come with a warning. Your kingdom is in terrible danger, sire."

"I don't care if you come wi' a barrel of whisky and a trunk full o' gold!" King Fergus unsheathed his sword and began to stride menacingly towards her. "I will strike you down where you stand."

The witch sighed. "I wouldn't recommend that."

"Dad, _no!_ "

Merida's voice rang out across the field, but the King was already charging towards the witch like a red-eyed bull, bringing the blade down upon her head with a fierce battle cry.

The second he moved, so did Merida. In an instant, she was in front of him, blocking his path and his blade with the only weapon she had at hand - the still-flaming torch he had given her moments ago.

Fergus blinked, looking at her with open shock. Merida stared straight back at him; two stags locking horns. It was an all too familiar scene.

"Merida, what do you think you're doin'?"

"Dad, you have to listen to her," she pleaded. "You have to listen to _me_. She's not- she's no evil, not like that. Not like _Mor'du_. I think she knows-"

"That THING was responsible for turnin' Mor'du into a monster in the first place."

"I know, but listen-"

"I AM LISTENING," his voice boomed across the green. "I've BEEN listening! It's you who's deaf to reason, Merida! Do you know how many people the beast _she_ created slaughtered? This witch gave a cruel an' greedy man the body of a monster, an' he used that power to tear through people like they were paper. _Our_ people. People _we're_ supposed t' protect! That witch gambled with magic, with people's lives." His voice cracked as he rose to full height, withdrawing his sword. "An' if you don't see that, you're no fit t' rule this kingdom. An' you certainly don't deserve this."

He wrenched the torch from her hand and threw it onto the bonfire. The flames caught quickly, crackling through dried leaves and silver birch. For a beat, Fergus just stared at Merida, eyes unblinking and glaring hard. Then he pointed one thick finger at the Bear Witch, eyes narrowing fiercely.

"Tomorrow night," he motioned at the fire with a sharp jut of his head, "that will be you, old woman.” Fergus turned to the Lords. “TIE HER UP! Take her to the castle and lock her in irons!"

"But, my Liege," Lord MacIntosh hesitated, "what if she curses us?"

"Aye, what if she turns us intae a toad?" snapped Dingwall. "Or a gammy wee lamb? Whit ye gonnae do _then_ , Fergus?"

MacIntosh whipped his head at him. "Oh aye, that's dead scary. Yah big numpty. What's wrong wae a fluffy wee lamb?"

"Nothin', but ah don't fancy bein' anyone's Sunday Roast!" Dingwall retorted, then cringed when the King rose up behind them, irate.

"If the pair of you don't get a move on, _I'll shove my boot so far up yer collective arses yeh'll be wearing your kilt as a bloody_ BONNET."

As the Lords argued between themselves, Merida stood on the field, alone and forgotten. It would be okay, she told herself. The witch had great power; she had seen so herself. And for a hopeful moment it looked like the Bear Witch would resist the King's orders and break the iron chains Dougal and Colin were attaching to her skinny wrists and ankles, as easily as snapping a thread. With a smirk, her leathery fingers snapped at the air. Dougal leaped behind Colin in a spectacular show of not-bravery, and Merida held her breath. But then a puzzled look fell across the old woman's face, and for the first time, Merida actually thought she was afraid.

Merida felt her hopes sink as she came to the same realisation the Bear Witch did: the old woman could not break her bonds, and she did not know why.

Trembling from cold and the adrenaline that had abandoned her, Merida could only stand and watch helplessly as the crowds dispersed and King Fergus disappeared down the hill towards the castle. She caught one last glimpse at the witch. The old woman's eyes locked with her own, grave and full of concern. With her bristly chin, she motioned to something over Merida's shoulder before she, too, disappeared from view.

Frowning, Merida turned to follow the witch's gesture, but she could only see the white tents accommodating the clansmen and women who had fled the north from the storm.

Suddenly a movement caught her eye. A black winged shape was circling the sky above one tent: it was the witch's crow, she realised - the old woman's _familiar_.

Merida's eyes followed the bird down until it landed upon the flag post of one tent, blinking at her with glassy beetle-black eyes. The tent it perched on was much smaller than the others, and curiously shaped. Rather than the typical rectangular or square-shaped canopied dwellings, this tent was circular. What's more, Merida knew who it belonged to.

The slit-like entrance was open and the interior was pitch black. Curiously, she felt drawn to it, even though the standing hairs on the back of her neck screamed at her to run, to hide, to not take another step near that widening entrance, gaping open like jaws.

She glanced around. The games field was empty now, the only light and movement was the slow crackle of the bonfire's lazy flames hissing in the cold air. Holding her breath, Merida crept closer towards the open tent, only to freeze when she caught sight of a figure standing on its far side.

Lady Nicnevin. Merida held her breath. She had only ever glimpsed Lady Nicnevin from a distance, but that had been enough to set her teeth on edge. The woman was tall, almost impossibly so, and her sharp angles and long black hair reminded her of the bony branches of a winter birch. Stranger still, the Lady's left arm seemed to hang longer at her side than her right arm. Something in Merida repulsed at the sight of it - she knew instinctively there was something evil about that hand. The withered fingers were too long and slightly coiled, ending in nails the colour of black ice and sharp as knives.

Holding her breath, she began to creep closer. Lady Nicnevin had not noticed her presence, or if she had, she did not care. Too late, Merida realised the woman's attention was taken up by something else. A movement caught her eye. Treetops stirred in the windless night, deep in the woods where the land sloped sharply upwards into thick forested hillside.

Merida squinted. There was something in there, between the trees. A large, pale shadow in the dark with two points, ice blue, shining from within, too high to be human...

Her heart dropped.

It was a face. A long, pale face, partially hidden by a shroud. It's arms hung limp, antlered head bowed as if too heavy, and the body too weak to fully raise. The head hung so low it almost looked like the neck was broken, but the creature's eyes were staring out across the green, alive and on her - _watching_ her.

Merida saw instantly they weren't human eyes. Human eyes take things in, but these eyes only gave out. And what they gave out was full of hate and rage.

Breaking into a cold sweat, she barely noticed the hard frost creeping across the ground towards her, crawling up the canvas walls of the tents a steeling over the bonfire, carefully snuffing out each flame one by one. The chill of the night wrapped around her like a winding sheet as Merida realised.

She knew that face alright.

The dreadful face in the rock.

She turned and broke into a run, pumping her arms and legs down the icy slope towards the castle without daring to look back.

 

**oOo**

 

When Young MacGuffin found her later that night, Merida had taken refuge in the kitchen- or more precisely chin deep in some kind of thick, custard-like pudding. She was eating without really registering the taste or texture. It was just something to do. Easy, rhythmic, no thinking required. Just bite, chew, bite chew. It was the perfect distraction from her mother's worried questioning, her father's cold words... the monster in the woods.

Life was much less complicated with pudding.

She spooned another large mouthful of the steaming hot clotted cream into her mouth as Young MacGuffin came down the narrow stone steps into the kitchen proper. Her head ached and she was too tired and too weary to even feel embarrassed at the number of empty bowls she had accumulated throughout the night.

Connall took in the shadows and fine lines under her eyes. He couldn't help but smile, for despite her exhaustion the Princess looked just as fierce and terrifying as the day he'd first met her.

Without looking at him, Merida grunted, "If you're here to lecture me or ask me how I'm doin', I'll tell you this right now - sod off and give us peace."

"Actually... t' be honest I didna ken anyone'd be down here," Connall admitted, sitting further down the bench from her. (A little farther than she would have liked.)

"A MacGuffin's always honest," she quoted him back, pretending to ignore her own unwelcome thoughts.

"Ah can go if ye like?"

Merida didn't answer. Truth be told, she wasn't sure if she wanted him to stay or leave. She poked at the cooling layer of crust forming on top of her dessert, and Connall noticed with no little amusement that the Princess had been eating with a dirk. The dagger's sharp blade glinted viciously in the dwindling firelight. He could almost hear Young MacIntosh's snide remarks at her inappropriate choice of dining cutlery.

Looking around, he noticed the Princess had in fact armed herself with a number of weapons. She was sitting amidst her own private arsenal, as if waiting out a siege on the kitchen. A quiver of arrows was belted around her waist, and her bow lay alongside a broadsword on the table, beneath which a shield with the Dunbroch coat of arms leaned against the wooden table legs. Connall raised his eyebrows, but thought it wise not to comment.

"So what brings you down here?" she asked, sucking the remains of sticky dessert noisily from her fingers. "If you wanted dessert, you're out of luck. I got... peckish. There's a little left in that pot over there, but it looks a bit like Lord Dingwall's neck rolls now."

His shoulders rolled with laughter and he shook his head. "No, Princess, bit thank you aw the same. Ah jist came doun to fix ma' head up, that's all. I'll be out yer hair in tae shakes, dinnae worry.” He paused thoughtfully. “In fact ah can leave it til mornin'." He started to rise, but Merida was on her feet before him, hands firmly, but gently, guiding him back down.

"Sit down and let me do it," she ordered. "I know where everything is. Hold tight."

After a minute she returned with a bowl of warm water, a cloth, and some fresh bandages - all safely stored behind a loose brick by the door for the days when her brothers would come home counting the various “war wounds” they had collected on their adventures.

"This might sting a bit," she warned, and began to dab carefully at the old bandage. The wound had obviously bled since it had been dressed. The blood was crusted and glued to the underside of the gauzy material wrapped around his forehead.

"Don't fash yerself, Princess," Connall's deep voice rumbled nervously in her ear as she bent over him. "No' on this big feil."

She swallowed thickly. The little stammer in his voice did something to her that she wasn't willing to admit, not even alone in the middle of the night in a dark kitchen. 

"Oh stop being a big jessie. I'm nearly finished."

"Mmmh," came his non-committal response, red-cheeked and staring stubbornly at the hands cupped in his lap.

It always amazed her that for such a large man, Connall was timid as a mouse and twice as shy. But under that there was something else that kept reeling her in. There was a warmth to him, an innocence that Merida had to admit neither she nor her brothers had ever possessed. And he always kept himself tightly coiled and controlled, like a spring. What would he be like if he relaxed in her company? Stopped treating her like a Princess and more like a friend?

Her face dipped closer as she loosened the old bandage inch by inch, careful not to hurt him. She could feel her own breath on his cheek. They were so close she could see the fine blonde hairs along Connall's jawline, feel the heat of him through the layers of her dress. He smelled like a hearth; of coarse wool and burning wood, and rain on the hills - everything that felt like _home_. It was intoxicating. And it was doing things to her it shouldn't, things Merida didn't want to be aware of, but the insistence of the growing need was getting too hard to ignore; too hard to pretend like it didn't exist. For a moment, she let herself imagine what his soft stubble would feel like against the pads of her fingers, the brush of them against her upper lip, feathering against her cheek.

When she felt for her voice again, it came out cracked and hoarse.

"Turn around," she whispered, voice rough as she pulled at the MacGuffin over-plaid across his shoulder with clumsy fingers. She could feel him tense beneath her fingers and when he looked up at her with large questioning eyes, Merida wanted to drag her fingers through her hair and swear in frustration. "The bandage is tangled up in yer hair. I need to-" her voice trickled out and she motioned with her hands, all too aware of her own burning ears.

Thankfully he understood. With a silent nod, Connall turned to face the open kitchen, his broad back to her.

Merida breathed a sigh of relief. This was much safer.

They talked idly as she untangled the strands of hair caught up in the old bandage, loosening the two braids and letting his fair hair fall. She smiled - Dougal would be jealous of these locks. They were the straw colour of harvest.

Carefully removing the last of the gauze, she hesitated a moment, before asking, "I can plait your hair the way you had it, if you like?"

She felt him stiffen, but after a pause he nodded silently. Feeling bold, Merida began to comb her fingers through his hair. It was much softer than she'd expected, slipping through her fingers like water- so different from her own head of wiry curls. Parting it, she drew one bunch into her left hand and began to pleat.

"Yeh really do idolise your Da', don't you?” she said teasingly. "Right down to these silly braids. And don't think I haven't noticed you've been trying to grow a beard since the day we met, Connall MacGuffin."

"It was nout but a few wee wispy hairs back then," he laughed, bringing his hand up to rub at his stubbly jaw line. "Isnae much more impressive now, mind. But, aye. My fither's an honourable man. T' tell the truth, ah've looked up tae him since I wis a lad."

"MacGuffin's a good man to look up to," she said, and found she meant it.

Out of all the Lords, Alastair MacGuffin's temperament was the most reasonable. He was famous in the land for his belief in fairness and honour, and had been first to pledge his allegiance to King Fergus. She had listened to more than one tale of her father's adventures with Alastair MacGuffin, fighting off encroaching invaders on every coast and border. It made her wonder if she she would have a similar relationship with the three heirs who would become her future allies - or would the fact that she was a woman forbid that?

"I wonder if we'll ever be like them," she blurted out, without meaning to.

Connall snorted. "Yer already like yer fither."

She smacked his shoulder, grinning. "I meant the two of us. And Colin and Dougal, too. I wonder if we'll ever fight side by side like they did."

He didn't say anything to that at first, only tucked his head closer to his chest, but she could see the tips of his ears burn red. When he did speak, his voice was low and soft, “Ah'd like that awfy much.”

Merida smiled. The idea of fighting side by side with MacGuffin made her feel warm from head to toe. She was still grinning to herself as she tied off the last pleat and reached for the roll of fresh bandages. A small, unwelcome thrill shot through her when he moved obediently as she turned him back around by the shoulders. It was such a small thing, but felt so personal and full of trust. Each time she touched him, she could feel the way Connall's muscles would bunch and stiffen beneath the coarse linen of his tunic, then gradually relax into her hands, trusting her to guide and move him until they were facing again.

Now that they were facing again there was an uneasiness between them, a wall of tension. It wasn't a bad feeling. But it felt like she was stepping closer to the edge of something unknown. Connall was close enough that she was sure he could hear the thrum of her heart in her chest now. The possibility made her want to squeeze her eyes shut, so she busied her hands unrolling fresh bandages over the deep wound on his forehead. Her palms sweated as she reached around him to tie a knot at the back of his head. It was impossible trying to keep her breathing steady with him so close. Her lungs weren't cooperating, not with Connall's warm, tapered breath against her bare collarbone.

"All done," she croaked, leaning back to observe her handy work. "See? That wasn't too hard. No _fash_ at all."

Grinning, she smoothed the hair from Connall's eyes.

For a heart shuddering moment he met her gaze full on. Merida had never noticed how blue his eyes were; pale as quail eggs, and full of the same fear and apprehension she had seen in them the first time they had met. But there was also heat in Connall's eyes as they raked over her, cautious and hungry. A sudden feeling came upon her- a desire to kiss away that fear and keep him safe, so strong it rocked her to her core. Her fingers brushed the dressed wound on his temple, skimmed down his bruised cheek along the small fine hairs on his jawline, lingering on the apple of his throat. Merida could feel it bob as he swallowed thickly, nearly moaned at the shift of him underneath her fingers. She wanted to feel more of him beneath her, wanted to know what his jawline would taste like under her open mouth.

Hesitantly, she pushed forward, her leg nudging against his knees, inching them apart, sliding forwards. Connall's eyes fluttered shut. For a shuddering moment she thought she felt him unwind in her hands, the large pads of his fingertips dragging lightly up the curve of her waist, resting just above her hips with the gentlest pressure.

But it must have been her imagination, for the next moment Connall was clearing something in his throat and putting space between them, eyes fixed firmly on the floor. Discomfort travelled off him in waves.

Merida stepped back, her face burning in shame. Had she really been leaning in? What had she been thinking? Hadn't Lord MacGuffin just announced to the entire ruddy kingdom that Connall was betrothed to Miss Annis?

Miss Annis, Lady Nicnevin's daughter, who she was more convinced than ever had something to do with the storm.

Oh god, there was a conversation they were going to have to have. Only now Young MacGuffin would never believe her, certainly not after she had made her feelings very clear; feelings she hadn't been fully aware of until... well, until about five minutes ago. The fact that she had come so close to losing Connall had awoken an unwelcome awareness in her, one she was totally unequipped to deal with it. Maybe she could pretend the moment between them never happened.

Suddenly, Merida's whirling thought-process stopped abruptly as something else occurred to her. Had it been a moment between them? No, she realised, with a sick lurch of her stomach. It hadn't. The only thing Connall had done was stop what she had instigated.

Merida attempted a smile in some small effort to ease the awkwardness, despite the stinging behind her eyes.

"Nifty bit of handiwork if I do say so myself," she said with fake jollity, dusting her hands off.

Connall touched the fresh bandages gingerly. "Thank you."

"Oh wheesht." She waved him off. "It wouldn't be very Princessly of me to let you bleed out on the floor, would it?"

"Ah think yer definition of Princessliness is far superior, actually." He looked at her so warmly then that her heart skipped several beats. "Canna ask yeh somethin', Princess?"

"Merida."

"Princess Merida-"

"Och, - _just_ Merida," she snapped, without venom, bumping his shoulder with her own. "I hate being called Princess. Besides, I think we've known each other long enough tae drop the formalities." She smiled and added, " _Connall_."

For a moment Merida thought he might protest; the look he gave her as she spoke his name was so open and confused, and maddeningly vulnerable. Like she was the sun. The urge to cup his face in her hands and kiss him stupid 'til morning gripped her so fiercely then that she had to turn and walk to the other end of dark kitchen, where the cold night air whistling under the door might have a chance of cooling the heat pooling in her stomach. She was positive he could see the glow of her cheeks even in the dark.

"Well then, thank ye' – _Merida_."

She heard the smile in his voice as he tested her name on his lips, and squeezed her eyes against it, swearing soundlessly. Was he doing this to her on purpose?

Connall continued. "Canna ask whit yer really doin' down here in the middle o' night? As... As a friend?"

When she turned around he was standing in the middle of the kitchen, fumbling awkwardly with his hands, but still looking at her with warmth and open concern.

Her nose prickled in warning.

She was _not_ going to cry.

Instead, she slid to the floor near to the kitchen back door, pulling her knees up to her chest and raking fingers through her hair. The kitchen door led out to the castle courtyard, and beyond that, the archway. If you were to follow the path to its conclusion from there you would find yourself on the high green and the games field, where Young MacGuffin had once competed for her hand in marriage. At the time, Merida had thought it was the worst possible fate to befall her. But now it seemed the high green held a far more dangerous threat.

She sighed. "Do you ever feel like you're so busy trying not to make the same mistakes you made before, that you wind up making a whole set of new ones?"

Connall said nothing, but moved to sit between her and the door. His large shape acted like a buffer against the cold wind whistling under the door. Idly, she wondered if he had done so on purpose. They listened to the whine of the wind picking up over the hills.

"I saw something tonight. Out there in the forest," she admitted tensely. "I don't know what it was. But it was huge."

"A bear?"

"No.. not a bear." She frowned, trying to remember the strange shape of the beast, struggling to fit it to something familiar, but she couldn't. "More like a stag, but not a stag. Or a man, but ..not a man. You know?" 

Connall gave her a look. "A man that's not quite a stag, and not fully a man, but a wee bit stag?"

"Actually more a woman than a man."

"Ah weil, that clears that up then," he teased, earning him a sharp elbow to the ribs. "Sirry, sirry."

Merida sulked. "I knew you'd think I'm crazy."

"Actually, ah dinnae, not by a long shot. There's strange things abroad these days," he admitted and the lines around his bright blue eyes creased in thought. "After our stronghold fell, ma' fither an' I went round tae warn aw' the local settlements of the comin' storm. The farmers we came across were feart of a creature in the woods. Bigger than the trees, they said. They called it the Walker. T' be honest, ah spent most of my nights outside wide awake after hearin' folk talk about it."

Merida, who had been listening intently, felt a fresh wave of guilt knock her sideways. She dropped her head on her arms with a groan. "It's all that stupid witch. Ah know it's all connected to her, ah'm sure of it. And she... She's my fault, Connall. Ah'm responsible for all of this."

Connall chuckled. "Ah think yer givin' yerself tae much credit there."

"You're not the first person to tell me that this week," she huffed.

"Then someone's givin' ye good advice. Ma' mither always used to say ' _failin' means yer playin'_.” He winked at her, then gave a shrug of his large shoulders. “Ah dinnae think freedom's worth havin' if it does'nae include the freedom to muck things up a bit."

Merida didn't answer him. How could she? How could she possibly explain that her selfish wish to change her fate all those years ago had culminated in splitting a sacred stone - a stone that had served as a prison for the monster who had unleashed the storm on the MacGuffin clan. A storm that took two of Connall's brothers and left him scarred both inside and out.

It felt selfish to cry, so Merida forced the tears down into the pits of her boots where she could stamp them into the ground, but her throat felt constricted, tight and raw, and she wound her arms around her as if to keep herself in one piece. She couldn't fall apart, not in front of Connall who had lost so much.

A hand lightly touched her shoulder. Merida nearly jumped, but the heat and gentle pressure of Connall's hand on her was solid and warm.

"If ye knew whit would happen when ye made the choices ye did, would ye 'ave gone through with them aw the same?" he asked.

Merida frowned. "Of course not."

"Then yer innocent in ma' eyes." His quail-egg blue eyes were soft and a corner of his mouth tugged up in a smile as he gazed at her. “Ah think anyone who lives their life too afraid tae do anythin' fer fear of the consequences might as well sit aboot with their head full o' puddin'."

His eyes were still on hers as their laughter subsided, and she leaned further into his touch as his thumb drew idle circles around her shoulder. For a moment the space between them felt charged again, thick with a heady sort of tension. Connall's eyes flicked to her lips, licking his own, before darting away, the apple of his throat bobbing as he swallowed. It wasn't just her, was it? Merida tried to read him, to understand, but every time Connall let his careful facade slip, he quickly coiled in on himself again, too timid, too afraid. Clearing his throat, he broke their contact and trained his eyes on the safe flag-stoned floor between them.

"Whit ah'm tryin' tae say, lass, is I admire ye. A great deal. All those years ago, the way yeh not only stood up an' faced the Lords doun, but both yer fither an' the Queen - that wis the bravest thing ah ever saw." He grinned at her. "Plus ye managed tae wound Dougal's ego a wee bit, which can always use a gid beatin' or two." He gave her a small nudge, accompanied by a very loaded look. "Besides, 'tween you 'n me, ah think he enjoys sparrin' with you."

"Don't you start too," she grumbled, pushing her face into her folded arms. "Why does everyone keep saying that?"

"Mibbe they see somethin' yeh don't?" he offered.

Merida lifted her head to look at him, stubbornly. "Or maybe I see _something_ in _someone_ else."

Connall blinked, a look of surprise crossing his face. Then his expression turned to something indecipherable, almost pained, before his eyes clouded over completely. "Sirry, Prin- Merida." He shot her a weak grin. "Yeh'll know yer own heart.”

"Yeah. Well. You would think so," she replied wryly. "I'm no' too sure right now."

"Listen, if ah could be half as brave or honest as you, ah'd never wish fer anythin' else," he told her. "Ah'm nothin' like my brithers or my fither. Ah've been in more fichts than ye can count on yer hand, ken, but ah've never been brave, lass. No really." A frown creased his brow as he looked down at his two dinner-plate sized hands. "Tae be honest... ah don't think ah ken how tae."

Hesitantly, Merida reached out to curl a hand around his forearm. "You stood up for me back then. I haven't forgotten that."

He shot her a rueful smile, letting his hand brush the curls framing her face. Merida held her breath, and for a moment they just stared at each other, eyes locked and unblinking. Then he dropped his hand, shaking his head.

"Mibby so, but... Ma two brithers, Niall and Shae, the ones who were killed in the storm? They were truly brave, y'ken. Never feart o' anythin'. Followed me round like pups, too." For the first time Merida saw the raw, open grief in his eyes. "I miss them, ma' wee brithers. They were ten times the leaders ah'll ever be, ten times as brave. Everyone knew it, except fer my fither."

Merida leaned her head against his shoulder, rubbing small circles on the inside of his forearm. “Maybe you just haven't found something worth being brave for? I don't think everyone can be a hero all o' the time. It's like you said yourself. We make our mistakes. We choose our battles. I think there's something all of us have to fight for. A fate to find." Her hand slid up his forearm to find his, lacing their fingers together. "Maybe you just haven't found yours yet?"

"Aye... Mibby." His voice was hitched and a little breathless. There was hardly any space between them now, too intimate to be called innocent. He gave the hand laced in his a gentle squeeze back. "Aw the same, just because I'm the eldest doesnae mean ah'm the right man fer the job. I don't ken how tae lead like he does."

"Like your dad?"

"Like yours."

Her expression clouded over. "Right. Good old Dad."

Merida leaned her head against the rough over-plaid around his shoulders, yawning wide. "For the record," she said sleepily, "I think you're doing just grand."

"Words ye should heed yerself.” He chuckled. “So... Have ye made a decision?”

“A decision over what?”

“Whatever it wis that has had ye down here half the night eatin' Dunbroch's supply o' puddin',” he told her, pointedly.

“Right. That.” Now it was Merida's turn to shoot him a weak grin. “To be honest, I think I made my decision a long time ago.” She took a deep breath. “I started down this path. Guess I'll  have to follow it wherever it goes.”

Outside, the stars had become obscured by thick clouds and a slow trickle of snow was starting to fall. Feathery piles of it were gathering on the little window panes, opaque with condensation turning to frost patterns.

Perhaps it was the heavy fog of sleep weighing her eyelids down and her body giving into exhaustion that gave her courage when she said next, "I never congratulated you on your engagement, y'know. To get yourself engaged to a someone you've only just met..." Merida gave a flat little laugh. "You must really be in love."

There was a long silence before Connall nodded. "Aye. I guess I am. Viry much so."

There was no trace of a lie in his tone, just plain sincerity. It felt like she'd been kicked. Merida didn't speak again. Even if she wanted to, she didn't trust herself to keep the raw emotion out of her voice.

Her hand slid out of his and they sat in silence after that, until the heat from Connall's side and his steady breathing lulled her into a deep, dreamless slumber; the first she'd had in weeks since the nightmares began.

 

**oOo**

 

When Merida woke next it was early morning. She sat up, blinking disorientated into the weak light dawn. The curtains had not been closed the night before. Of course they hadn't - she had not been back to her bedroom. Yet... here she was. In her own bed, where the wooden posts were hacked with years of taking pent up anger out on them with a claymore. How had she gotten back from the kitchen? She wasn't prone to sleepwalking up flights of stairs.

It was then that she noticed the rough over-plaid of the MacGuffin clan wrapped tightly around her. Her chest constricted. The coarse wool smelled like the hearth, and mountains after rain.

She fell back onto her pillows, blowing curls out of her face, and held the Young MacGuffin's plaid to her chest like a tourniquet to her hammering heart. It didn't seem to matter how many things she put in the hole there: the Connall-shaped hole she hadn't noticed until it was too big to ignore. Like the guilt hole that had been eating her alive ever since the Bear Curse, Merida tried to make anything fill it - duty, fate, responsibility. The cold look on her father's face. It wasn't like these things were in short supply, but like a bottomless well, nothing could fill the ache.

And it didn't matter anyway.

Because Connall MacGuffin was in love with someone else.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to say Merry Christmas and happy Winter Solstice (okay, it's passed I know, but still!) to everyone celebrating. :D Have a cracking time guys!x


	7. A Thrifty Shifty Army

**A Thrifty Shifty Army**

 

_Too many eyes are open by day_

 

“Have you ever noticed how the snow makes everything seem quiet? It is the same sombre hush you find in a library, where you may walk wi' baited breath through a forest o' books, terrified to breathe, for yeh ken the books are listenin'. They say it is the Cailleach's doin'. The Lady O' the Cold cannae abide noise. Her snow absorbs all colour an' mirth, for they remind her of what she canna have. A bitter woman indeed.' - the Bear Witch to Crow, one autumn evening in the woods near Dunbroch.

 

**oOo**

"Keep yer guard up! I said UP- _bloody Mabel_ , you call that a defence??" Merida snapped. "Mind your footwork. Better. Parry. _Riposte!!_ "

There was a high-pitched squawk as Dougal MacIntosh darted back to avoid a vicious slash from the Princess's sword, overbalanced, and did a little twirl before face-planting the snow.

Merida huffed out her irritation and leaned on the hilt of her broadsword over the prone man. "And what do yeh call that?"

"The last act of a handsome warrior facin' down the greatest monster man's ever faced," Dougal grumbled into the snow. "A woman scorned."

She drew him a withering look, one eyebrow cocked. "Oh aye? Well it didn't work very well, did it? Up!" Merida snapped her head around to the other side of the snowy glade, where the rest of her 'class' were assembled, exhausted and panting on the cold ground. "And you four - stop lazin' about and get back to training!"

Collective groans and pained grumblings filled the bitter air as the three Princes of Dunbroch heaved themselves to their feet in the deep piles of snow. Only Wee Dingwall remained sitting, perched neatly on a boulder, leisurely sharpening his sword with a whetstone.

Merida shot him a warning glower. “ _Dingwall_.”

Colin didn't look up at her. “My dear Lady, you know ah' have nothin' but the utmost respect for ye, but as you may 'ave noticed my strengths dinnae lie so much in Young MacIntosh's more... _athletic_ abilities, shall we say. My talents,” he drawled, finally looking up at her and tapping the side of his head with a small, clever smile, “lie up _here_.”

“Oh, I see. Well that's grand,” she said. “You can just _think_ yer way out of being impaled on my sword then.”

With something nearing a reproachful look, Colin slid from his seat on the rock like a disgruntled, pear-shaped cat, to join the others. Merida had woken them just after the crack of dawn for sword training. It was approaching Noon now, and they were drenched in sweat that cooled all too quickly in the cold morning. Most everyone else was inside the castle, toasting King Fergus's capture of the Bear Witch, or warming themselves by the fires.

"Aw come on already, can you no give us a break?” Harris groaned, wiping a hand down his face. “We've been at this for hours! This level of torture disnae justify a mere week's worth of puddin', y'know.”

"Aye," Hubert agreed, moodily kicking up the powdery snow. "We've missed breakfast an' we won't make it back for lunch at this rate."

"Dad and Lord MacGuffin'll have made short work of it by now." Hamish looked up at the castle forlornly, holding his grumbling stomach. “We'll be lucky if we get scraps.”

“ _See_!” Harris cried, gesturing at his brothers. “Your poor wee brothers are wastin' away before yer very eyes. How can you be so cruel?”

But Merida was unsympathetic to their complaints. "Because _this_ is more important than lunch."

The triplets gasped, looking scandalised. Hubert pretended to quiver his bottom lip, while Harris patted him consolingly, “Shhh, don't listen to her, mate. She disnae mean it.”

Merida ignored her brothers antics with a roll of her eyes. She began to striding between her hastily assembled students like a drill fierce sergeant.

"Now listen up, all of yeh! Yeh're no a bad lot, you have some real fighting skill – well, except you Colin, you're terrible. Dougal, wipe that smug smile off yer gob. Harris, Hubert - both of you need to mind your balance. Hamish- watch your wrist work and stop resisting the sword's weight. Use it instead, move with it. You'll pick up more speed that way." She pointed the tip of her weapon at Dingwall. "Colin, your strength lies in your unpredictability, but to outwit your opponent you have to have the basics down perfectly. Practise!"

Colin gave a lazy nod, resting his chin on his hands crossed over the hilt of his sword. Out of all of them, Colin was the only one who didn't seem to mind being hauled out of the castle into the woods for a private training session with the Princess. In fact, to MacIntosh's growing irritation, Colin seemed to be enjoying himself. He had that familiar spark in his pale eyes; part calculating, part intrigued. It was a look that had always wound up getting Dougal into hot water in the past.

"And YOU-" Suddenly Merida was swinging her sword back towards Dougal. He gulped. "Quit yer fannying around! Do you think the enemy's gonnae be impressed when you start mincin' about with that poncy Stab Bladder sword of yours?”

“It's Stab _Blooder_!” he snarled out.

She rolled her eyes again. “Whatever. There'll be no gaggle of ladies to show off to in war, so focus on yer fightin' and quit yer flirtin'." She stabbed her sword into the snow and crossed her arms, glaring up at the games field and muttering, “Especially no wae those stuck-up, mouthy, long-faced, schemie wee cows. _Miss_ Annis my arse.”

Dougal glanced between her and the cliff side above where the high green which accommodated the games field lay, currently inhabited by the clansmen, and the mysterious host of women who had rescued Lord MacGuffin and his son. His eyes slid back to the Princess, who was still muttering to herself. Dougal wasn't the sharpest sword in the armoury – he was more of a blunt axe – but he wasn't completely oblivious either. He slapped a hand to his forehead with an incredulous bark of laughter.

"I cannae believe it. It's _true_ , isn't it?" He shook his head in disbelief and thumbed at Colin beside him. "Ah thought Wee Wally was aff his heid when he told me, but he's actually _right_ , isn't he? Your absolutely gone on that big oaf!"

Merida looked at her friend as if he was talking another language. “I'm sorry, _what_ are yeh on about?”

"Don't sound so surprised, MacIntosh," Colin drawled, looking put out. “The day _I'm_ wrong about anything is the day it snows in summer.”

“Yer still a bit slow to catch on though,” said Harris, folding his arms smugly and gesturing with a nod to himself and his snickering brothers. “ _We_ figured it out ages before last night's little scandal wis revealed.”

"Scandal? What scandal?" Merida looked from face to face, puzzled and increasingly more irritated at being ignored. She stomped towards her brothers menacingly. “Boys, _what - scandal?_ "

"Oh nothing,” said Hubert, grinning behind a cupped hand. “Just a wee rumour flying around the castle about a certain _garment_ discovered in a certain _Princess's_ chambers."

“Och, Heavens tae Betsy!” Hamish crooned, pretending to faint while Harris nodded solemnly beside him.

"Aye, it's a scandal alright. Just thank yer lucky stars Mum left early this mornin' to see to the folk camped out on the high green.” Harris looked at his sister oddly. “I thought that's why yeh dragged us all oot here to freeze our bums off? We thought yeh just wanted t' get out of the castle and let things simmer down for a while.”

“What flippin' garment? I still don' have a _clue_ what any of you are on ab-” Suddenly Merida stopped dead, turning ashen as she finally put two and two together. Blood drained from her face. _Nessa_. Her gossiping maid must have found Young MacGuffin's tartan in her bedroom – more specifically, _in her bed_. Merida wiped her hands down her face, groaning loudly. Why hadn't she thought to hide it? “Oh no. Oh gods.” She put fingers to her temple and shook her head. “This can't be happening, _this can't be happening!_ ”

“By all accounts, it very much _did,_ ” said Dougal. His smug sneer was back in its old haunt, but now it was accompanied by a very suggestive look, one cocked eyebrow almost touching his hairline. “Do not fret your pretty wee head, Princess. I will still marry yeh. I am a big enough man tae overlook yer misdemeanours, however scandalous.”

“They only thing big about you is your big heid,” Colin responded.

Merida hadn't heard either of them. She was pacing the snowy forest floor, muttering over and over again. "No, no, no! This can't be happening, not now! Nothing even _did_ happen!"

Dougal raised one hand up, while studying the nails of his other hand with a bored expression. "Ah-ah, stop right there. Before you start wi' the excuses, let it be known that I really couldn't give a rat's arse about what you did or didn't do with-" He choked back a laugh and pulled a nauseated look. " _MacGuffin_. I just want you to stop taking your hurt wee lady feelings out on us strapping men folk."

"Much as I hate to agree with this lanky twit,” Harris grimaced, “we second that."

In response, his sister launched a well-aimed snowball at his face.

"Listen, none of you know what yer on about," Merida snapped. "Last night- whatever stupid rumour's flying around is just Nessa mouthing off as usual about stuff she doesnae understand. OK? I mean, by Dagda, Connall's gettin' married!"

“Oooh, it's _CONNALL_ now?” Hubert waggled his eyebrows while Dougal gave a loud and derisive snort.

"So what? I don't see what the problem is. You're the Princess. It's not exactly like Connall can refuse you, is it?" Dougal righted himself hastily. "Again. To summarise: I. Don't. Care."

Merida glared at him. "There is so much wrong with that." She shook her head. "Actually, let me rephrase: there is so much wrong with _you_."

"Uch, here we go." Dougal rolled his eyes and moved to lean his elbow on Wee Dingwall's head, sighing.

"One," she raised a finger, "I'm no in love with Young MacGuffin, so get that out yer thick heid. That goes for ALL of you. Two," she continued, her second finger uncurling to join the first, "even if I were, which I'm NOT - boys, shut yer gobs,” Merida shot a glare at her snickering brothers, then continued, "I can't just use my position to force someone into doing something they don't want, you eejit."

"Sure you can." Dougal shot Colin a mocking smile at her expense. "That's what makes us better than everyone else."

Her eye twitched. A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "And three."

Merida lunged forward to take Dougal by surprise, disarming him by a glance to his wrist with the dull hilt of her blade and sending his broadsword flying into a tree.

"You're out o' practise," she finished smugly, sword pointed at his adam's apple. "That makes six rounds I've won."

"The last round was a draw!" Dougal wailed, shaking his bruised wrist in the air. Humiliation was on him now, and the three Princes of Dunbroch were doubled over, grasping their sides with laughter. Even Colin cracked a lazy little smirk. For some reason _that_ irked Dougal more than anything.

Before he let his temper get the better of him, he saw Merida pull his lodged sword out of the tree trunk. She handed it over to him, hilt first, with an open, serious look in her storm blue eyes.

"Do you really think I'm doing all of this just to distract myself from a broken wee heart? There's more goin' on around here that needs our attention. I need yer help. I need yer _trust_ ,” she said softly, and turned to address Colin and her brothers. "The MacGuffin territories are gone and the clans are all camped out in our back garden. Our harvest was a good one, but the food's not gonnae last all of us for long. Not through the winter. And that's the _good_ news,” she grimaced. “On top of that, war is comin', and we are unprepared. Just because we haven't seen a glimpse o' the storm on the horizon yet, doesn't mean it's no comin' - and bringing the Norsemen with it."

"Oh _come on_ ," Dougal scoffed with a roll of his eyes, while Colin asked,

"You don't actually believe that, do you?"

Merida blinked at him in surprise. "Colin... You said you saw the storm yourself?"

For a second, the smaller man's face looked haunted, but the look didn't linger. Few expressions did. It swept across his face like a passing shadow, replaced with his usual half smile. "Aye, well. I don't know what I really saw. But whatever it was, it couldn't be an invading army of hairy Vikings floating over the sea."

Dougal and Colin started to laugh, but she could hear it fray at the edges, nervous and not completely convinced by reason.

Her eyes hardened. "It's true, I know it's true. I told you what I saw last night on the games field – that.. that creature in the woods. And Lady Nicnevin- there's something no' right about her. I swear she saw that creature in the woods too, but she didn't look shocked or frightened by it at all. You don't think that's suspicious?" She started pacing again. "And that Annis- are you really telling me Connall fell head over heels in love with her in, what, a few days? _Connall_?? He couldnae even _speak_ to a girl without faintin' dead away before!"

"Look, believe me," Dougal began, "no one in the kingdom is more surprised than I am at MacGuffin's inexplicable ability to attract a beautiful woman.” He shot her a rude look. “Present company not included, by the way. But none o' that means Nicnevin's lead a Host of hobs and ghaists to yer door. You probably just saw a big towzie dog in the woods.”

However, Colin and Harris, the strategists of their hastily formed group, were looking grimly thoughtful. Harris' shaggy eyebrows pulled together in a frown, as Colin said, "You think Miss Annis isnae who she claims t' be?"

“It's an odd thing none o' them come near the castle,” Harris pondered outloud.

Dougal glared at them. "Oi. Don't you encourage her."

"Right?!" Merida nodded eagerly. "An' Dad said Lord MacGuffin's been spendin' all his time with Lady Nicnevin. It's no like him, he's barely been around t' see t' his own folk. Maybe it's like a glamour or something. Maybe they're all fey?"

"She's crazy." Dougal shook his head again. "You're crazy. Do you even hear yourself?"

She tilted her chin up at him, stubbornly. "MacGuffin would believe me."

"Apparently not, if he's under ' _a glamour'_ ," said Dougal, air-quoting the latter, but beside him Colin's pasty face was starting to grow concerned. Dougal knew he was losing them. Drawing himself up haughtily like a peacock, he puffed out his half-naked chest and stepped back to address them all. "Listen to me, you know what the MacGuffins are like. They love their tall tales and silly wee legends. It doesn't make them true!"

Colin gave him a sidelong look. "Oh aye. This coming from the clan that claims a magical harp helped them slay one thousand men."

"It's a _lyyyre_ ," Dougal pronounced emphatically, "and shut up!"

Colin ignored him coolly. "But my Lady, even if this is all true, what can we possibly do to counteract such magic? I doubt very much men who can control a storm at will and cross the sea without so much as sails will worry about sword or axe." His eyes fell to the snow encasing their feet, fearfully. "An' if Lady Nicnevin's who I am startin' to suspect she may be-"

Just then, a crow cawed in the knotted bare branches of the trees above their heads. The tatty black bird flapped its scruffy feathers, as if to get their attention. It seemed to be watching them, listening...

Merida's eyes lit up in recognition. "You're right. We need to fight fire with fire." She swung her red head back to her rag-tag little group - they were few in number, but she trusted them and they did not need an army to complete the job she had in mind. Her round face beamed and she said, "I need your help."

 

**oOo**

"There she is."

There was a rustle as Wee Dingwall's ghostly face appeared through her curly thicket of hair.

"Where?"

Merida motioned with a jut of her chin. "Over there by the stairs."

"But what about the guards?"

"Downstairs, obviously. Don't worry, ma' brothers will deal with them." A devilish grin broke across her face. "They may look innocent, but they're wee demons. All we need to do is get by Maudie and Nessa."

Above them both, Dougal's long pointed nose parted Colin's vertical plume of hair. "For the record, I hate this idea," it seemed to speak.

"Why Dougal, I thought you'd relish the idea of getting to flirt for King and Country," she said coyly.

"Aye, you were born for the role," Colin agreed, a sly smile sneaking across his own face.

"Glad to see you've found your sense of humour, Wally," Dougal muttered, turning his ire on the Dingwall heir. "Why isn't _MacGuffin_ here to take this abuse?"

Merida's face turned sour. "Because I said so."

He drew her a long, unimpressed look. "This is a time of month thing, isn't it?"

"I must say, MacIntosh," Colin began, "you have a very slappable personality."

"Oh, you've really found your tongue today, haven't you, Dingie? Who knew you could stand up for yourself."

Dougal hit down on the crown of Colin's head with his pointed chin. Colin responded by snapping his head backwards, causing the other man to bite down on his tongue and bash his nose. This resulted in a spectacular scuffle of wildly slapping hands and hair-pulling.

"Quiet!" Merida hissed, winding them both with a sharp elbow to their stomachs. "Dougal, quit yer complaining and get into place. Colin, you stay here and keep an eye out. Dad and the Lords'll be out on the hunt for a while yet. When Maudie moves away from the stairs, I'll nip down and- .. Uh, Colin. Can you stop sniffing my hair please?"

"Sorry."

"This is a terrible idea," Dougal snapped pompously. "You're going to get caught and the King's going to hang US for treason." He wrapped a bony hand around his long neck, fearfully. "And I'm too handsome to die."

"Aye, much as I hate to side with this hairy puddock, it is risky," said Colin. "Are you sure you'll be okay, ma' Lady?"

She looked up at them with an easy, confident grin. "What's the worst that can happen?"

There was a pause where they heard the loud boisterous laughter of many guards thunder up from the dungeons. Dougal gave a long suffering sigh.

"Why did you have to say that?"

 

Five minutes later, Maudie and Nessa found their daily gossip interrupted by a Young (but thankfully not so young that it would be improper to let their minds wonder south) MacIntosh swaggering along the corridor towards them.

"Nessa, may I say what a charming grey pinafore you've donned today," he drawled, leaning casually against the wall opposite the two women. "Brings out the colour of your eyes."

Even from this distance Dougal could he hear Young Dingwall scoff in derision and cluck his tongue. He grit his teeth and resisted the urge to run back and slap him. _'Pasty wee git'_. The two women, however, broke into nervous blushing giggles, so Dougal made a grand show of folding his toned bare arms over his semi-naked chest and lazily crossing one hairy ankle over his other.

"And my dear Maudie, I must say you're looking absolutely ravishing," he unfolded himself and sauntered towards the older woman like a drunk cat swaying his skinny hips. As he reached her, Dougal leaned a hand against the wall above her head. "Is that a new wimple?"

Maudie giggled and slapped his chest. "Och, Young MacIntosh, yeh wee charmer. I'm old enough tae be yer Mammie!"

"Ahh, but a woman of great experience, nae doubt." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

As the apples of Maudie's ample cheeks turned five shades darker and both women broke into another round of titters and giggles, Merida took her chance. Quick and nimble as she could, she darted by them, through the hall and down the stairwell to the dungeons below.

 

The stairs were steep and narrow, lit by the occasional hazy glow of a mounted wall-torch. The deeper she travelled, the danker the air became, thick and heavy with centuries of damp creeping through old stone.

At the foot of the stairs, four guards were slumbering away, the occasional loud snore echoing through the dungeon chambers.

She grinned as she tip-toed past the snoring men, spotting an empty bottle of mead on the floor between them. Her brothers had done a real number on the poor guards - a sleeping draught, no doubt. There were more slumbering guards as she crept further into the rocky-walled warren. Years ago, when they were still but novices, the triplets had invented a sleeping draught that was strong enough to knock their father out for a couple of hours. The ingredients were still a mystery and her brothers' were tight-lipped on the subject, much to their father's fury.

The dungeons ran deep into the rocky cliff beneath Castle Dunbroch, with the lower cells kept for the most dangerous prisoners. One tunnel branched off from the main, deeper and darker than the others. Chillier too. Merida pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders. A pang went through her for the old woman as she wondered how anyone could spend a night down here.

But as she crept down the passage to the last cell, she found the witch sitting with her hands cupped around a hovering orange flame, burning by itself without fuel. The tiny licking flames didn't appear to scald the old woman's hands, but Merida could feel the heat of it from the other side of the iron bars, warm and breezy, like the afternoon sun in summer.

Apparently not so frail and powerless after all.

Frowning and without greeting, Merida slipped cross-legged to the ground in front of the cell. With her hands on her knees and elbows jutting out, she cocked an eyebrow as if to say, "Well?"

The Bear Witch peered at her searchingly.

"Did you no bring me anythin' tae eat?"

Merida groaned. "Aw fer goodness- I'll bring yeh something tae eat later! You and I," she motioned between them, "as you so succinctly put it last time we met, have business tae discuss."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last update before the New Year. Wishin' you all a Happy Hogmanay, folks! : D


	8. The Tale 'o Mor'du

**The Tale o' Mor'du**

 

 _Mor'du, Mor'du_  
_Mor'du, Mor'du!_  
_You're ancient as the highlands_  
_And as unforgivin' too_

 

 

The witch gave the Princess a long and suspicious searching look, then stuck her bottom lip out in a pout. "If yer father has his way I may not be in possession of a _Later_." She eyed the Princess searchingly again. "...No' even an apple or a wee bicky?"

Merida ignored her. "Tell me what you know about the Cailleach, and this time tell me everything. No lies. No half-truths. I know you're involved somehow." She gave the witch a hard look. "Last night on the green, you tried to use magic to free yourself, didn't you?"

The witch looked away, shamefaced, but stayed silent.

Merida pressed on. "Is it Lady Nicnevin? Is _she_ the Cailleach?"

This time, the witch gave a rueful snort. "Aye right, Cailleach indeed. HA! That beany old fart wishes sae much. No. Nicnevin's no the Cailleach, buuuut I wouldnae underestimate her either. Some call her the Queen o' the Witches-” she cleared her throat abruptly. “Not me of course, _I_ have standards, but she is a servant of the Cailleach, along with the seven in her party. Be just as wary of them, dearie. They may look like young fair maidens or frail old women, but they are quick, and wise, and brutal. And they have nae love for humans." The wise woman's face grew tired and grave. "Take my word fer it, you cannae fight them wae fire an' sword the way you'd would a normal enemy. And they dinna understand things like right an' wrong, or good 'n evil. They are whit they are, an' they do what they do, nothin' mare to it. Like a storm, they can tear through one village and leave one man standing, not because they care an inch, but simply because _they can_.” The witch pressed her wrinkly face against the bars, staring her hard in the eye. “You understand me, Princess? They do not play by our rules."

Merida nodded, but a sick feeling was building in her gut. Her father wasn't much for rules and regulations, until it came to war – in war, Fergus saw everything black and white. She knew with a sickening certainty that if he tried to go against Nicnevin and her hags, they would cut him down with as much care as a woodsman fells a tree.

"They must want something," she said, almost pleadingly. "Are they trying to start a war?"

Bony shoulders shrugged. "You're asking human questions an' expecting reason in return, hen. They've simply come because they feel the pull of the Cailleach's storm. The Lady O' the Cold's spirit is easing free of her imprisonment in the stone, and calling her body back from the wastelands. Nicnevin awaits her return an' answers only tae her."

Merida sank back, hanging her head. She knew the legends of the Cailleach, of course. Most children grew up with it: the tale of poor Bride the spirit of Spring, who was imprisoned for many years in a hollow mountain by the monstrous Cailleach – a giantess and Lady of the Cold who ruled over an everlasting Winter. One day, the Cailleach's son, Angus, visited Bride in her dreams and vowed to help her escape his mother's prison. Within the realm of Bride's dreams, the two fell in love, and she escaped with Angus's aid. With her freedom came Spring, and with Angus, the Summer Prince, she brought balance to the seasons; but the Lady of the Cold never quit trying to claw back the year for herself.

It was sort of a wet story. Merida had always drifted off during the bit about the star-crossed lovers, Bride and Angus (which was of course her mother's favourite).

"And you," she asked, eyeing the old wise woman with fresh suspicion. "Just how are you involved in all of this?"

The witch inclined her head, smiling. "Well, put it this way, dearie. The Lady O' the Cold may be known as a Winter deity to most, but to me she was a mentor." She took a moment to relish the look of surprise on the Princess's face before continuing. "I came to this land small and afraid, and lookin' for a family. Instead, Bheara found me. That's what ah called her back then, when she took human form. Bheara taught me my letters, the runes, the old ways.” Her face grew dark. “Aye. I learned a great many things under Bheara. But I was never going to make a great witch, that much was obvious to her early on. At one point she might have shown interest in my, erm, particular _skill_ for transfiguration." She gave the Princess a guilty smile. "But she soon she left me to my own devices. The Cailleach doesn't keep anything around her that is not useful. She sheds ties like a grieving widow sheds tears. Y'see, dearie, some are born into this world hard as nails."

"After a time, she came to me again. Told me she had use of me." Sadness swept over the witch, pouring into the tiny lines under her face and around her mouth. "You must understand, Princess, I still desired her love an' affection. She was the only mother I'd ever known after all, but make no mistake she was no mother. It was a role that never interested Bheara, never informed her decision to take me under her wing. I was simply a tool and vessel for the wickedness she planned, for a winter deity loves nothing more than silence, loss, the cessation of time. That is what the Cailleach takes comfort in. Progress is her enemy." The witch sniffed loudly, rubbing her nose and blinking tears away from her large watery eyes. "She asked me to make a potion for a young man who would visit me in three days time with a request: a request to change his fate."

" _Mor'du_ ," Merida whispered, listening intently with wide eyes.

The witch nodded. "When he came to me, I believed I was doin' good. A witch canna meddle in the affairs of mortals, y'see. We can offer a choice, but it is up to our customers to, eh, pay the price as it were." She wisely ignored the dark look that had come over the Princess's face. "I told myself Mor'du had good enough in him to overcome the dark. But I was wrong. Bheara had poisoned his mind against his brothers. He became obsessed wae her, bent tae her every whim." The Bear Witch heaved a sigh full of regret and sadness. "For years the rivers ran red wae the price of his jealousy and infatuation. A burden I must also share."

"And yet you _still_ gave me the same spell you gave him," Merida pointed out.

The witch shot her another broad and gummy grin. "Aye, well, we can all be bought at a price."

The Princess looked incredulous. "Like my mother's necklace? _Really_?"

The old woman's eyes narrowed in a surprisingly fierce glare. "You've no idea how precious that is tae me, dearie. We all have a wish... a door tae find."

"So how did the Cailleach become imprisoned in the stone?" Merida pressed on. "Was it Mor'du?"

"Yeh kiddin'?" The witch cackled. "At that point Mor'du couldn't tell friend from foe. He was full bear, only rage drove him on and the memory of some injustice done to him. No, I'm afraid the one who trapped the Cailleach in the auld stone," she drew her hairy chin up, proudly, "was me."

Merida's eyes grew wide as she hit upon a realisation. "That's why Nicnevin refused to help you last night!” she cried. “You couldn't use magic because she stopped you!"

The witch grunted. "Aye. Lockin' the Cailleach up put me out of stead wae the witches. Cannae go against your ane kind the way I did without facin' repercussions. S'why I went into wood-carving." She beamed. "Much safer enterprise! An' workin' my ane hours means I get holidays off tae nip up north fer the Wickerman festival."

Merida leaned forward in a crouch, sweeping her legs under her knees. "Tell me how I can defeat this.. _Lady O' the Cold_ , if not by sword? Would some other weapon do the trick?"

"Oh, michty me, you royals," the Bear Witch shook her head, chuckling. "You cannae defeat a _god_ , dearie. The Cailleach can appear human, but her true shape is far more terrifying. You can only prevent it. Force it to sleep. _Bargain_ wae it."

"But how??" Merida exclaimed, waving her arms around in frustration. "What could a GOD possibly want?"

"In this case?" The witch chewed the inside of her mouth, pensively. "Her staff."

"Brilliant!" Merida whooped, snapping her fingers. "Where do I find it?"

The witch gave her baffled look. "I don't know."

"What??"

“Oh it was lost ages ago.“ She scratched her bristly chin thoughtfully. "Durin' a battle wae Mor'du, as ah recall. Och, she was furious. Without her staff ah was able t' put her away fer good! Well, until you an' yer mother came along anyway." When she caught the Princess hovering over with a scowl that would have scared most people inside out, the old witch drew herself up defensively and muttered, "What? Don't look at me like that, I wasn't at the battle, yeh ken! ..Oh dear."

Merida realised the Bear Witch was staring at something over her shoulder. She whipped her head around to find Young MacIntosh standing at the end of the tunnel they were in, his lanky ill-clothed frame silhouetted against the glow of distant torchlight. His arms were crossed and his long nose was pointed in the air, tense but defensive.

"Dougal? What're you doing down here?" Her scalp prickled in warning. Something wasn't right and suspicion laced her tone as she asked, "Where's Colin?"

In answer, a large figure filled the tunnel, blocking the last glimmer of torchlight.

The passage was plunged into darkness, but Merida didn't need the light to recognise her father's hulking great form. Sure enough, as her eyes adjusted, she saw her father towering behind Dougal. The King's eyes were blazing. Her father was angrier than she had ever seen them in her life, but worse than that was the hurt behind the anger. A raw, open hurt and it was directed at her. It cut her sore. Merida almost flinched.

"Dad-!" She got to her feet, feeling her legs trembling under her own weight. “Ah c'n explain-”

The dungeon was suddenly filled with moving bodies as several soldiers (more than she thought necessary, really) filed into the tunnel. King Fergus did not even look in her direction as he pushed past her, bodily blocking her from the cell of the Bear Witch.

"Take 'er upstairs tae her room." Fergus's voice was low and hoarse, but did not disguise the trembling anger that lay beneath. "Lock her door. Not even the Queen is t' see her, you un'erstand?"

Guards appeared at either side of Merida before she could fully protest. She tried to grab her father's arm, her fingertips brushing the fur mantle he wore across his massive shoulders, but the soldiers pulled her away in a vice like grip. They frog-marched her after Young MacIntosh's lead like a criminal, kicking and struggling through the tunnels, and up into the castle proper. She caught Wee Dingwall's eyes on the landing above. The wide-eyed look he gave her betrayed his discomfort with the situation, but her protests still fell on deaf ears as she kicked and screamed against the men who held her fast. Merida felt her heart plunge as Colin looked away, casting his eyes to his feet. Had she really been betrayed by both of them?

When they reached her bedroom door, Dougal stopped and swung around to face her. She could see the betrayal written all over his face, but he remained straight backed, defiant, and poised for an argument.

Using all her weight and fury, Merida launched herself at him with a howl of anger. She didn't get far enough for her punch to connect before the guards managed to regain their grip, but she was close enough to thrust her chin up in his face. He flinched, eyes widening in surprise.

"I will _never_ forgive you for this," Merida spat, her voice hard-edged like rock.

Dougal blanched, thrown by the iciness of her tone, but he quickly re-gathered himself and gave a loud scoff. His shoulders shook as he laughed and elbowed the guards around them. "Don't blame me for your ane poor judgement, Princess. Amirite, lads?"

Merida scowled. "Aye. You're right there. My trust in you was misplaced. A mistake I'll never make again, _MacIntosh_." She gave him a scathing smile. "But maybe you've forgotten I'll be Queen one day. And when that happens, you and I?" She drew closer, threateningly. "We will never have an alliance."

Her threat struck a chord with him and she watched with satisfaction as Dougal's expression turned from shock to anger, and finally fear.

He grit his teeth and grinned meanly. "Well in that case, make sure yer trust in me is a mistake you don't repeat with MacGuffin."

"What are you talking about?"

"Oh? Surprised are you?" He threw back his head and laughed. "Just how do you think I could've sounded the alarm to yer father when he was out on the hunt? Yer dad already knew where to find me, because someone _told_ him."

The guards tugged her impatiently towards her quarters, but she pulled back with a bark of laughter in Dougal's face.

"Away an' dinnae talk rubbish! Connall would nev-"

"Oh for the love of Lugh- never what?!" Dougal shouted at her, flailing his arms wildly. "Seriously – _what_? What wouldn't he do for you? By all means, tell us! We're all dead eager to know," he said, gesturing around at the guards obviously eavesdropping, despite the awkwardly embarrassed looks on their faces. The young Lord thrust a knobbly finger in her face, the tip of it pressing against her nose. "Everyone knows the two of you were alone together last night. Yeh weren't very subtle about it, _My Lady_. Face it, you made a mockery of him. First you turn MacGuffin down, then the moment he starts courting another lassie, you snap yer fingers an' he comes running like a witless puppy. It's shameless!" he laughed. "Dobbing you in was probably the only thing that witless oaf could do to mend his poor fiancée's broken heart. Yeh kin hardly blame him. If you don't believe me, just ask some o' the guards here." He swung around at the men behind him. "Lachlan! Who led the King tae me?"

The lanky ginger man jumped at being singled out. "M-MacGuffin's son, M'Lord," he stammered reluctantly. "His eldest... told the King the Princess was conspirin' against him." He gave Merida a guilty look. "Sorry, yer Majesty..."

With a triumphant smile, Dougal planted his hands on his skinny hips. "There! See? I didn't have a choice to lead yer dad to you, really, it was all Connall's doin-"

A dull smack reverberated around the passageway as Merida's fist connected with his face.

Speechless and white with shock, unable to comprehend that a girl had actually struck him, Dougal lifted a hand tentatively to his nose. The clan heir nearly fainted when he pulled it away to find drops of dark blood on his fingers. He whipped his head back to the Princess, expression livid, but the look on her own face stopped him cold. Merida was shaking her head, but close up Dougal could see her fierce blue eyes cloud over and a little bit of the fight go out of her; defiance growing to doubt and heartbreak. Her shoulders sank and she drew into herself.

Dougal hated himself even as his hard smile grew and he wiped away the blood trickling over his upper lip.

“You know, Princess, maybe if you fought and acted like a proper lady, MacGuffin might actually see you as one, instead of the overgrown bear yeh really are. No man'll love a woman who flexes her claws the way you do." He shook his head, sneering. “Especially not a timid wee _boy_ like MacGuffin. The only thing he feels for you is blind terror.”

Merida shook her head in disgust. “You're a monster, Dougal.”

This time she didn't resist as the guards opened her bedroom and pushed her inside, bolting the door after her.

 

**oOo**

The whole castle was in commotion as heavy boots stumbled in and out of the great hall, ferrying wood into carts for the Samhain Neap Fire. King Fergus was striding through the havoc, bellowing commands and (largely due to the Queen's present absence) completely failing to bring order to the stream of confused soldiers, servants and stable hands criss-crossing back and forth between the hall and bustling courtyard.

As Young MacGuffin made his way through the packed hall towards Colin and Dougal, he wondered vaguely if the Queen was still up on the high green, carrying out her role as diplomat and overseeing preparations for Samhain. It was the most important event of the year, after all.

The thought of the Queen alone on the high green made him nervous, but she was a capable woman. More than capable. Connall had always admired and, if he were honest with himself, been a little terrified of her. He couldn't decide if Queen Elinor was more intimidating as a bear or a human, though he tended to side with the latter.

When at last he reached his friends, Connall couldn't help but snicker at the thunderous looks on their faces. Young MacIntosh and Wee Dingwall were leaning against a wall, arms folded and stubbornly facing away from each other. Clearly the aftermath of another falling out. He'd witnessed more than one of their spats over the course of their long acquaintance, and they were never pretty.

"Ah swear you two bicker like a hisbind an' wifey," he laughed as he joined them. "Spit it oot then, whit's aw the haverin' aboot?"

When neither answered, Connall began to grow uneasy. He looked around him at the bustle of the hall once more, frowning. Something in the atmosphere didn't feel right. There was a tension in the air that was more than the mad scramble of preparations for Samhain.

"It's no git anythin' t' dae with whit's goin' on around here, has it?" he gestured with his head at the hall.

In answer, Colin swung his head around to glower at Dougal. "Well, well, look at that. It would seem he doesnae ken, doesn't it?" he spat icily. “I do believe _you_ should be the one tae inform him of recent events, don't you, MacIntosh?”

Connall looked between them and cocked his head, innocently. "Oh aye? Tell me what?"

"About the Princess," replied Colin, but his scowl was still pinned on Dougal.

The twitchy, troubled look on the heir of MacIntosh's face disturbed Connall almost as much as the fact it seemed to involve Merida. A bone deep protectiveness he hadn't felt in a long time surged up inside him. He stepped menacingly closer to his bare-chested friend.

"MackIntosh,” his voice boomed, though he had not raised it, “tell - me – what."

"It's not MY fault," Dougal finally snapped. "I thought you were the one who dobbed her in! That's what King Fergus said, so really, this is all on your great fat he-" the last part of his sentence was cut off in a strangled yelp as Dougal was lifted clean off his feet.

Maybe it was because Connall MacGuffin was widely known for his good humour and self-effacing nature, but moments later the formerly busy hall became still and deadly quiet. Everyone stopped to stare openly at the normally timid heir to clan MacGuffin, who now had Young MacIntosh by the throat and pinned against the wall.

"What did yeh do, MacIntosh?" Connall repeated, voice echoing throughout the hall. It was the clearest Dougal had ever heard the man speak, not that now was the best time to appreciate the novelty. His own reply came out as a gurgled whine.

Colin rolled his eyes and decided it was time to intercept. "Merida went to speak to the witch in the dungeon. She said she wanted to sort everythin' out, so we went with her - to act as look-outs, ye ken? Then this clever clogs goes and chickens out the moment the King comes across us," he said, jabbing a thumb at Dougal. "Fell to his knees like a great big jessie, pleadin' for his life. Then he told the King he'd take him right to the Princess. Y'can imagine how Fergus reacted upon finding his daughter chattin' away with the witch.”

“Where is she now?” Connall bit out, without taking his eyes off Dougal.

“Fergus has her locked up in her room." Colin gave him a long, scrutinising look. "You know... The King told us _you_ were the one to tip him off that Merida was up to something in the first place.”

"Ah niver did any such thing." Young MacGuffin's eyes narrowed in silent anger, and his hand squeezed tighter around Dougal's neck. "Ah niver would. Yeh ken that better than anyone, _MacIntosh_."

“It's treasonous to accuse the King of lying,” Colin remarked coolly, watching MacGuffin's reaction carefully.

Connall's blue eyes only blazed silently at Dougal, who was clawing at the massive hand clenched around his throat. Colin nodded to himself, musingly. Whatever had happened, he was convinced now of MacGuffin's innocence in the matter. But what reason would King Fergus have to lie about his involvement? Unless, King Fergus wasn't aware he was lying...

When Dougal started to turn a similar shade of blue as the body paint along his arm, Colin gave a sigh and relented. "Och, as much as I'm enjoying this, you should probably put him down, MacGuffin."

Grudging, Connall did so. Releasing his massive grip, Dougal dropped to the floor in an ungainly pile of limbs, coughing and wheezing, and rubbing at his neck. The MacGuffin heir didn't say anything, only shook his head once as he glared down at his friend, before turning and storming towards the stairs.

The crowd of onlookers quickly parted to let him pass, then dissolved into excited whispered mutterings amongst themselves and pointing at Young MacIntosh, curious and entertained by the public drama.

Colouring, Dougal scowled at them as he staggered to his feet. "Show's over! Get back tae work!” he growled out. “The King wants us on the driver's road to the stones in half an hour, so move it!"

The crowd dispersed, but Dougal could still feel Colin Dingwall's smirking eyes on him.

"Oh, you shut it 'n aw."

 

**oOo**

 

Merida sank to the space beside the door with her arms between her legs, and stared blankly at a spot above her bed. Hours had passed since her father's guards had locked her in here. There was no use trying to get out, she had exhausted every trick in the book. The oak door was several inches thick, the lock was on the other side, and with her mother seeing to the Samhain preparations and aiding the clans camped out on the games field, there was no one to come to her aid. Not even Harris, Hubert or Hamish could help her. She had overheard the guards escorting her brothers to their quarters a half hour ago.

That had lit a fury in her Merida hadn't known she possessed. To imprison her was one thing; to imprison her brothers? _Unforgivable_.

And then she remembered queasily that the orders must have been given by her father; her father, whom Merida had watched from her window shouting orders at his men as they scurried across the snowy courtyard, ferrying wood for a pyre.

A pyre for the Bear Witch.

The snow was falling thick and fast now, large flakes covering over the black footprints criss-crossing the courtyard. A tall iron cell had been hastily fixed to a trap and hooked up to two large horses, their heads tossing and snorting nervously in the winter air, as if they knew who or what they would soon be ferrying.

Merida dipped her head to her chest, running fingers through her hair and squeezing her head in frustration. She wanted to scream, wanted to cry - the tears were right there below the surface, but when she tried to reach them all she felt was a hollowness.

Over the years, she had had a number of quarrels with her father. Two stubborn wee peas in a pod, her mother used to call them, but their arguments had never lasted longer than ten minutes. It wasn't in their nature. King Fergus wasn't just her dad, after all - he was her best friend.

This felt different. This was new territory. She had made an enemy out of her own father. Or rather, she had made an enemy out of herself.

Just as she felt a part of her wanting to give up, wallow in self-pity, and accept the witch's cruel fate, the room shook as three loud bangs struck her door.

"Merida!"

She sat up straight.

"Connall??"

"Aye!" the man shouted gladly. "Sirry, did ah make ye loup? Are ye ok? Hawd on a mint, ah'll get ye out."

The familiar deep-barrelled voice was full of relief and warmth, and Merida felt her heart skip a beat despite herself. She found she even understood most of his gibberish. Then her stomach sank as she remembered his betrayal.

Bitterness crept over her like hoarfrost. She stamped her feelings down, willing them to harden into an icy ball in her chest. Her emotions were all over the place and Young MacGuffin was the last thing she needed to confront. She did not trust herself to speak let alone face him eye to eye.

"Go away, MacGuffin."

There was a moment of surprised silence. Then he spoke in a gentle voice, full of confusion. "Bit.. ah came tae get ye out. Yeh... Yeh dae wanna get out, don't yeh?"

"I'd rather stay here and rot than be helped by the likes of you," she snapped, and now she couldn't hold the flood of words back - they fell from her lips like a fierce hail. "How could you do that? How could you tell my Dad where I was?! What were yeh thinking?"

"Whit- no!"

"You must have known he'd- you don't know what yeh've done. They're goin' to kill her!” she cried. “No, they're going to _burn her_ , MacGuffin. Burn her alive. An' she's the only one who can help-” she broke off in a sob.

Connall's voice grew desperate. "Merida, it's no whit ye think- we'll get her out, ah promise we will. If yeh'd jist listen-"

"To what? Are you sayin' everyone's lying?" she asked him angrily. "Even my dad's men?"

She waited. Part of her treacherous heart wanted him to convince her otherwise and explain that it had all been some stupid misunderstanding; that the orders had come from Lord MacGuffin, and wee Lachlan had just been mistaken.

"Ah kin explain-" he said weakly, his voice low at the door. "Or..no, ah can't. Ah cannae explain. Ah wish ah could, but ah can't. Bit if yeh could jus' trust me, I-"

"Tell me."

"...What?"

"Tell me.” Merida pressed her hands against the door, staring through it as if she could see him. “Tell me you didn't do it. Tell me you didn't go to ma' dad." She took a deep breath. "Tell me, an' ah'll be believe you. Ah'll believe you, Connall."

She meant it, too. Meant it with every fibre of her. She took another deep breath and waited, but there was only a heavy telling silence from the other side of her door. It said everything Young MacGuffin didn't.

Merida clenched her fists, let the breath she had been holding hiss between her teeth. Her voice was hard and cold when she spoke next.

"You were right about yerself, MacGuffin. Right about yer brothers. You're not brave. All yeh do is hide behind everyone else, followin' where others lead without ever havin' to make hard choices. At least MacIntosh owns his own his stupid choices!"

Merida could hear her own voice begin to waver now, and rubbed her hot prickling nose against her sleeve. Everything was becoming blurry as her eyes watered. Her dress felt constricted across her chest as she tried to suck enough air into her lungs, but there wasn't enough damned air in her room and her bottom lip was trembling despite her best efforts. Blinking fast, she cursed the way the tears tended to find her when she least wanted their company.

She turned and leaned her back against the door, suddenly grateful for the solid oak between them. Merida wasn't sure she could face him otherwise, as he stuttered brokenly.

"Merida, there's nuthin' ah can say tae fix things," he said hoarsely, "but the last thing ah'd ever dae is hurt yeh or betray yer confidence. No' willingly. Ah really need you tae trust me on that."

"Trust you?!" She laughed, bitterly. "How can I trust you now? Your clan has always stood fer honour and fairness, but you? Yer just a coward, MacGuffin," she choked out, hiccuping. "A big stupid stuttering coward to your core, and you always will be."

Merida could hear him breathing, hear his stunned silence like a solid weight against her back. She couldn't bare it any longer, being so close to him and knowing what he had done, knowing that her words would hurt him more than any physical blow could. Regret was already creeping in, but she would not let him think she was weak.

Gritting her teeth and balling her fists, she stood and turned to face the door.

"Go back to your own folk, MacGuffin. Go back to your fiancée," she said, willing iron into her words. "I am neither."

Merida hoped her words struck home, willed them to hurt him the way he'd hurt her. Outside, a howling wind picked up, trembling the glass in the windowpanes. The broad sky was dark, but you could tell without seeing that the huge fat clouds were full of more snow threatening to fall.

"Whatever yeh believe of me, it disnae matter. Whatever man yeh may think ah ah'm, it's nae important t' me," said Connall, his voice was so soft she barely heard him over the whistle of the wind. Merida heard the door creak as the bulk of him turned away - he must have been leaning on the other side. “Yeh have every right tae be angry at me, an' fer more reasons than ye know. Yeh ask me fer the truth, but the only truth ah can tell yeh is simply that ah canna give it to you. Ah might have stood up fer yeh once lass, bit ah didn't stan' up fer yeh last night when ye needed a friend maist. So y'see, yer right. Ah ah'm a coward.”

Merida squeezed her eyes shut and let her forehead press against the door. She didn't want to listen to his excuses. Every word he said chipped away at her anger with doubt.

“Just go, MacGuffin.”

“Aye, Princess. As yeh wish. Ah'll go, bit...” he said, voice so close to the door she could tell he was only a few inches away. Her fingers traced the ridges in the wood. "Bit.. mibbe ah'll come back later. Jist in case yeh need m- ...jist in case in case yer still needin' help gettin' out."

Merida grit her teeth. "I won't."

"Aye," he said sadly. "Aye, ah know. Bit aw the same, mibbe... jist in case."

Then he was gone, and Merida was alone again.

Shouts and the clatter of hooves against wet stone rose up from the courtyard below her bedroom. She ran to her window, flicking the latch and forcing the frozen window open.

Her father and his men were setting off, King Fergus at the helm, blowing into a horn that issued an eerie sound. The Bear Witch's cell clattered along on the back of an enormous cart piled high with wood. Fat flakes of faster falling snow blocked any further sight of them; she couldn't even tell which way her father had headed.

Merida stumbled backwards from the window. She knew she had been selfish and stubborn. Why couldn't she have just swallowed her pride and accepted Connall's offer to free her? But just hearing his voice made her see red. The betrayal of the young Clan Lords cut her deep. For a precious moment, she'd believed they had been growing closer, that maybe even one day they would forge a similar bond to the one her father shared with the Clan Lords. Why did they have to go and prove to her they were nothing more than the selfish, gormless fools Merida had first pegged them as?

She sat on the edge of her bed, hand clutching the rough material of the MacGuffin plaid lying folded on top of her bed-covers. Her heart ached. She pulled the plaid to her chest and curled onto her side. This time, when she reached for them, the tears came freely.

 


	9. A Shot Across the Bows

**  
A Shot Across the Bows **

  
  


_'Conall caught the heroes' stone, and he_  
raised it on the top of the shoulder, and on the faggot   
gathering place of his back, and he carried it aloft to   
the top of Beinn Eidinn, and down to the bottom of   
Beinn Eidinn, and back again; and he left it where he   
found it.

_And the Gruagach said to him, "Ach! thou hast  
enough of strength, if thou hast enough of swiftness."'_

-From Tales of the Highlands and Islands, 1860

  
  


**oOo**

  
  


The air in Conall's lungs felt like liquid fire by the time he ascended the steep ridge where the games field overlooked the wide loch. The climb was made even harder by the slippery frost and snow, and he wasn't exactly light on his feet.

Lady Nicnevin's round tent stood smaller from the others, seemingly insignificant, but his heart always lurched into his stomach every time he came near it. He'd heard tell the  _sith_  disliked rooms or tents with corners for they were afraid of becoming trapped in them. The air around the tent physically repelled him. Worse was the woman inside.

Conall's eyes lingered on the dark entrance. He wondered if his father had gone with King Fergus to burn the Bear Witch, or if he had remained by Lady Nicnevin's side, like a loyal hound keen to do her bidding.

The games field and surrounding high green was still pleasantly lit with pockets of fire in honour of Samhain. The winter sun would rise tomorrow and the veil between this world and the next would lift. It was a celebration of past, present and future, and the final bonfire to be lit represented a challenge to the coming season - a light in the dark months to come.

Queen Elinor was standing by one of the larger tents, issuing orders to the servants preparing the grand bonfire at the heart of the field.

As Conall drew closer, his stomach dipped as he spotted Annis at the Queen's elbow. She smiled prettily when she caught sight of him coming across the green, but her beautiful features had a disturbing look about them in the harsh shadows thrown by the fire.

Queen Elinor raised a delicate set of eyebrows, surprised by his arrival. "Young Lord MacGuffin, what an unexpected pleasure." Her gaze slid towards Miss Annis and she smiled coyly. "Or perhaps not so surprising after all. Not even the  _sith_  can keep young love apart. I have just spent the day with your soon to be mother in-law and betrothed-"

"Yer Majesty, ah'm vera sirry tae interrupt, but it is  _you_  ah've come tae speak with."

The smile on Elinor's face dropped like a stone, replaced by an urgency and fierceness that reminded him too much of the bear she'd once been.

"What's happened?" she demanded.

"It's Merida," Conall blurted out, then coloured at his over-familiarity. "Ah mean, it's the Princess, yer Majesty. Ah know it's no ma place tae speak ma mind here, but the King's gone an' locked her in 'er room an'-"

"What?! For what reason?"

Conall's eyes flicked between Annis and the Queen's furious gaze, and swallowed thickly.

"They had a d-disagreement regardin' the... regardin' the uhh...” he stammered to a halt and turned his gaze to the ground, squeezing his eyes shut and willing himself to be brave. “Ah believe the Princess wis tryin' to free the wise wuman, yer Majesty. King Fergus foun' her an' now he's gone off wi' the Lords tae burn the witch," he said breathlessly, letting the words rush out before he could lose his nerve again.

Elinor's eyes blazed. He never would have believed the Queen of Dunbroch capable of such a stream of colourful invectives, had he not witnessed her first hand right there on the games field. Conall had always assumed Merida had gotten her temper from her father. Now he saw plainly she was the product of two fiery tempers.

"Uch! That stupid emotional man! This is why husbands should be culled at birth. When I get my hands on him I will wring his feckless neck!" She threw her head back and yelled, "LACH _LAAAN_. Where are you, you stupid boy? Bring me my horse! I have a family of necks to wring."

Conall and Annis could only stand back and stare in bewilderment as Elinor snatched the reigns from poor Lachlan and mounted her grey mare with the fierce single-mindedness of a soldier about to ride into battle.

"But my Queen!" Annis leapt forward anxiously. "My mother wishes tae speak with you further in her lodgings. She will be most aggrieved to hear you've left!"

"I have spent enough time on Lady Nicnevin for one day," Elinor retorted crisply. "I think she can bare to be apart from me for a little while."

With that, the Queen was off galloping pell-mell towards the castle, Elinor's hair flying behind her like a banner.

Conall made to follow her immediately when he felt a grip like a snake bite on his arm. He turned and found Annis was no longer smiling at him.

"My mother will not be pleased with you."

MacGuffin yanked his arm away, stepping back and shaking his head at her. "That wuman is nae kind of mither ah've ever known."

Annis tossed her head with a tight little sneer. “You barely even knew yours.”

Conall didn't rise to her jibe. She crossed her arms and glowered at him, but even anger on her never looked completely human. Her eyes were as black and hollow as the day he'd first met her. He started walking back down the hill towards the castle, hoping he could find the words to make Merida understand. Perhaps she could even help him?

Annis gave a high, tinkling laugh. “What are you going to do? Scale the castle wall?” She gave him a snide appraising look up and down. “Best leave great feats of courage to warriors like handsome young MacIntosh, my love. Who do you really think that bushy haired shrub of a girl really wants to come to her rescue?”

“That fine quine doesnae need rescuin',” he snapped back. “What she needs is a friend and ah willnae fail her in that role again.”

She shrugged in a bored manner. “And Nicnevin?”

Conall clenched his fists and turned to stand his ground. “Ah'm no takin' any mair orders from her. She's a ruthless witch.”

Annis gave him a lazy smile, brilliant teeth shining like pearls in her too-wide mouth, as she said, "More reason not to cross her, young Lord."

Conall's eyes grew round. He could hear the unspoken threat in her words, and his mind flew to his father with a fearful ache in his heart. His shoulders drooped. Behind Annis, he could see Lady Nicnevin's tent gaping open like a black maw. A figure stood inside, watching, too still to be human, too silent to be animal, but breathing. Listening.

"It's a pity, you know,” she drawled. “Dunbroch's Queen means well, but she is making a grave mistake."

Conall felt his heart grow cold. "Whit d'yeh mean?"

Now the look on Annis's face looked very human. Jealousy and spite glinted in her dark eye as she fixed her hard gaze on him.

"If the Queen frees her daughter, the Princess will die tonight."

  
  


**oOo**

The path King Fergus took to the  _Clanach Sluagh_  cut through a deep forest of snowy pine, giant oak and skinny birch, where the steep side of a mountain rose up on one side, keeping vigilant watch over their progress. Even if it weren't night, the peaks would still have been invisible. A veil of snow was starting to blanket everything in sight. It was a slow, steady trickle of large flakes which covered their heavy tracks in minutes.

King Fergus knew his men were nervous. Even the Lords Dingwall, MacIntosh and MacGuffin riding beside him - fierce battle-hardened men who had fought off invaders from Rome and the North alike - looked pale and wary. Their eyes kept darting to the trees on either side of them, unnerved by the heavy surrounding silence. Fergus knew all too well how the snow could play tricks on the mind. The snow took everything in -colour, warmth, sound, life- but gave nothing in return.

A low drumming echoed through the woods, vibrating trunks of ash and birch. A couple of horses shied, but Fergus barked at the men to steady them and keep to the path.

"Path? Whit bloody path? This is madness," Lord Dingwall grumbled, always the first to complain. "What are we doin' ridin' all the way out here t' freeze our ruddy bollocks off for? The witch'd toast just as well back hame!"

"Shut yer maggoty mouth, Wullie," snapped Lord MacGuffin. "Fergus knows what he's doing."

Lord MacIntosh rolled his eyes. "Aye, well he can tell that to my sair bum."

Dingwall gave him a sneering look. "Maybe if yer arse wasn't so bony yeh'd have somethin' tae cushion it with."

"I'd rather have a skinny bum than that flabby bagpie yer sittin' on!" MacIntosh snapped. "Looks like yer mother's saggy ti-"

"You leave ma' mother out of it, ya lanky beanpole!"

"If you three don't SHUT IT," King Fergus bellowed, "ah'm gonnae make brand new saddles out of yer arsecheeks!"

Young MacIntosh barely registered his father's arguing with the other Lords. After years of listening to the Lords argue it all became white noise. Besides, he was too distracted by the cold to care about much else. Dougal hated the snow. He wanted to be back in the castle by the roaring fire, with a flagon of wine and a pretty girl on the arm of his chair - not riding through the snow on a starless night with Wee Dingwall as his companion.

More than anything, more than the snow and the cold, or the strange silent woods, Dougal hated the look on Wee Dingwall's face.

He scowled at the shorter man keeping pace with him on the trail. Up ahead of them, hitched to the back of a horse-drawn cart, was a tall narrow cell with iron bars. Its prisoner was the Kingdom's most wanted criminal to terrorise the countryside since the demon bear Mor'du stalked the land.

The Bear Witch was huddled in a corner of the cell, quietly curled in on herself. She didn't look like a grave threat. To his eyes she only looked like a harmless old woman, but Dougal knew better than to question the King.

A quick glance around the party also told him Young MacGuffin hadn't yet joined them, despite the King's strict orders. He wondered if Conall had crept away to free Merida. A treacherous part of his heart hoped his friend had, but he crushed it instantly. Dougal had done the right thing. He  _knew_  he had.

There was a loud snort beside him.

Dougal glared at his companion. " _What_?"

"I didnae say anythin'," Colin replied sniffily.

"You don't have to. Your pasty mug says it all, so you might as well spit it out for all to hear."

Colin shot him a dark, assessing look out the corner of his eye. "Okay. Fine. You're a witless cocksplat, Dougal MacIntosh."

Dougal spluttered and his eyes went wide. " _Excuse me?_ "

"You heard me. You're a spineless, jealous, mean-spirited dunderheid. A weasel-nosed trout with an ego as big as yer balls are wee."

"Right, you can stop now."

But Colin's head snapped viciously towards him.

"OH NO. I've started an' I'm gonnae finish." He cleared his throat. "You're a Grade A prick. A lanky faced, bow-legged, giant shitgibbon who cannae see past the end of his massive beak. A complete and utter bawbag. A hairy galloot. A manky, spindly-legged, pasty grey jobbie with-"

"OKAY!" Dougal shouted, exasperated, and whipped his head around to scowl at the soldiers chuckling behind them. Colin's out of character tirade had drawn more attention than he had liked. He hoped to the Dagda his father hadn't overheard.

Dougal also knew he deserved every word of it.

The sick, tight knot in his belly refused to unwind.

"Okay," he said again, softer this time.

Colin shot him a brief sideways look, one fair eyebrow raised, before fixing his eyes on the path ahead. "So you admit it, then?"

"Yes. No! I- argh!" He ran a long-fingered hand through his hair in frustration. "I only led Fergus down there because it was a stupid plan. She already put everyone through the Bear Curse because of her dealings with that witch. Who knows what would have happened if she'd managed to set the old woman free?"

"Unbelievable." Colin gave a hollow little laugh and shook his head. "I think you actually believe the drivel coming out of your mouth. It's almost impressive what an absolute bullish lily-livered ninnie you-"

Dougal gave him a open, wounded look. "Please stop calling me names."

The side-eye Colin gave him said everything, but he held his tongue nonetheless. They rode on in silence for a while, before the heir to the Dingwall clan spoke again.

"You know Conall would never dob her in like that. We both know that giant doesnae have the heart to do anyone over, least of all the Princess. He's too decent for his own good," said Colin, then added haughtily, "Personally, I think honour an' valour's a bit overrated, but I'll take it over your thick-headedness any day."

Dougal didn't say anything, just sat slouched in his saddle.

"You don't even love Merida, y'know," Colin remarked coldly. "You might think you do, but yeh don't. You just hate tae lose."

With a sigh, Dougal hung his head. The fight had gone out of him.

"Fine. Say you're... Say you're right." He shot Dingwall a warning look before the other had a chance to gloat. "This is in theory, yeh ken. Keep in mind the idea of you bein' right goes against the natural order of things an' everything I believe in. But say you're right... that I don't love her like that." His voice grew quieter. "But if I don't, then why dae I feel so-"

"Guilty?"

Dougal cast his eyes down to the reins in his hands and nodded once.

"Guilty is how most warm-blooded people would feel after they did over their pals. And you managed to do over not just one friend, but two," Colin observed, candidly. "In theory, of course. Guilt is the conclusion I come to under the assumption that you are a warm-blooded man, and no' just an arse waitin' tae be kicked. Empathy isn't dished up on a plate for you to pick up whenever you fancy. You've got to want to  _care_  about people in the first place. Maybe if yeh'd actually ever loved someone other than yourself before, you'd-"

"I have."

This time Colin did turn to look at his companion, but Dougal did not meet his eyes. His gaze were still fixed rigidly on his own white-knuckled hands holding the reins.

"Y'know I have."

Colin didn't answer. Dougal didn't know if his companion would have, as a troubled muttering from the soldiers and Lords ahead drew their attention. Suddenly the trees parted to reveal a wide clearing of unspoiled snow. The horses grew nervous, tossing their heads and whinnying as the approached the stone circle: the ancient  _Clanach Sluagh_.

The sight of them sucked the air right out of Dougal's lungs. He swallowed thickly, patting down the length of his horse's neck as much for his comfort as the twitchy animal's. The stones, cripple-backed and huddled into the rising wind like hikers in a blizzard, seemed to hum with energy.

And the drumming grew louder.

Dougal began to wonder if he was the only one who heard it. Odder still, he realised with a tremulous shiver, no snow fell inside the circle. It was like an invisible roof sheltered the area. Beyond the stones, the snow was a whorl of movement, but inside the stone circle everything was disconcertingly quiet and still, like the world was holding its breath.

At his side, Colin gazed open-mouthed and wide-eyed. Few things stirred the shorter man into action - in fact, Dougal was proud to count himself among said few things. Colin normally wore the look of a bored trout, but right now the sight of the ancient ring of stones left all of them struck dumb with horror.

All except King Fergus.

At the head of the party, the King dismounted and strode towards the cart carrying the Bear Witch, stubborn purpose in every stride.

His hands were already undoing the leather straps securing the cell to the cart as his voice boomed around the hills. "Quit starin' like gormless neaps, lads," he bellowed. "We've work t' do!"

  
  


**oOo**

  
  


It was closing in on Midnight when her mother hammered against her bedroom door in a voice high pitched and frantic with worry.

"Mum?" Merida's eyes flew open and she scrambled off the bed, tripping as she ran to the still locked door. "MUM!"

"I'm here, love!" came her mother's voice, anxious and strained. "What in blazes happened? Heavens t' Betsy, I leave my family alone for one day and-"

"Dad locked me in," Merida interrupted, her voice still choked with half-shed tears. "He's gone off into the mountains with the Lords. Mum, he's gonnae burn the witch!"

"Wait, love, slow down-"

"He doesn't know what he's doing!" Merida sobbed brokenly. "Mum, yeh've got to open the door, please, I've got t' stop thi-"

The door swung out and Merida stood facing the corridor, blinking in surprise.

Her mother cocked on slender dark eyebrow at her. "Did you really think I wasn't gonnae let you out?"

Merida dived forwards, flinging her arms around her mother's neck. Elinor embraced her in a fierce hug - a little too fierce, Merida thought with a bone-cracking wince. Her mother had retained one too many bear-ish habits and attributes after the curse.

When Elinor drew back, her tone was irritable. "I was out on the games field seeing to the folk- that Lady Nicnevin wouldnae let me leave. A right old Missus, that one. You'd think  _she_  was the Queen and  _I_  her lady in waiting, the way she talked- but never mind that." She snapped her fingers, muttering furiously. "Och, yer stupid father. I'll chew his bloody ears aff!"

"Mum, I've got tae stop him. We need the Bear Witch. She knows what happened to MacGuffin's lands. She knows what the storm is!" She laid her hands on her mother's tense shoulders. "It's not the Northern invaders, Mum, it's- it's worse, much worse. I think it has something to do with the stone we broke to destroy Mor'du. The witch might be our only chance."

To her surprise and relief, her mother nodded. Whatever damage the Bear Curse had done, and the guilt Merida carried on her shoulders for it, the bond between them had been strengthened tenfold.

“I believe you," Elinor's eyes shone with trust as she stroked her daughter's face, shushing her. "Shh, don't worry, I believe you. We'll get Silas to saddle the horses for us and find yer father-"

But Merida shook her head. "No, get the boys first. I'll go on ahead. Angus is faster than Bridgit, we'll make better time."

Elinor's dark brows drew together in worry. "Merida, be careful. The snow's fallin' faster. There may be a blizzard coming down off the mountain."

"Don't worry, I'll be fine." She grabbed her cloak, bow and quiver from her room, swinging both over her shoulders.

"Oh aye, is that why you're taking a weapon?" Elinor remarked wryly.

Merida smirked. "It's just mah bow." She kissed her mother's cheek with a tight embrace.

Yes, well, if you think you're going out in that flimsy cloak, young lady, you have another thing coming. You're still pale from the fever!”

“Fine.” Merida rolled her eyes and rushed back into her room, snatching the first item to hand, tossing it around her shoulders and fastening it with a silver brooch. She squeezed her mother's arms as she trotted back into the corridor. "Really, I'll be fine. There's no better rider in Dunbroch, Mum."

Elinor snorted. "Now you're gettin' cocky."

"I'm never cocky," she retorted with another smirk and a wave as she walked backwards down the hallway. "I just know I'm right."

“That's what your uncle Jock said before he broke his neck during a haggis toss,” Elinor huffed, then squared her shoulders and wagged an imperious finger in her daughter's face. “And don't think for a second that upon your return I won't demand immediate details on the hows and whys Young Lord MacGuffin's attire came to be in the possession of your  _bed_ , young lady.”

Merida froze, but her Mother's only held her in a tight last embrace.

Then they parted to set off on their separate tasks. The guards watched the Princess tear out of the castle warily, but none stopped her: now that Queen Elinor had returned, they had been put in their place. Fergus may have been King of the realm, but Elinor was judge, Queen and executioner in the castle as far as most were concerned.

Merida tore into the stables where Angus was waiting, kicking the door of his stall with heavy hooves and snorting impatiently. He was a wise old beast and knew when something was wrong. Without bothering to saddle him, she swung herself on to his back and kicked him into a fast gallop.

The air was bitterly cold, colder than it had been on previous nights, and the rolling clouds were starting to make good on their threats as more snow fell thick and fast. She tugged on Angus's mane so that he came to a halt, and studied the ground with an eagle eye. The tracks her father's party had left were already mostly covered now, but she could just make the faint outline of them, heading North-West into the hills.

Merida grit her resolve and urged Angus into a gallop. She knew where they were headed.

  
  


  
  


**oOo**

There were things Young MacGuffin knew about the Princess that few others did. She snored in her sleep, and not delicate little snuffles either - deep, bone-vibrating, textured snoring, meant to wake the dead. She slept on her back and took up every inch of her bed with limbs spread-eagled, her hair splayed across her pillows like tangled wild heather. From a distance, her round face was pale and without imperfection. But on closer inspection, her cheeks were a ruddy, wind-beaten colour, and a spattering of light freckles covered her nose and forehead, too many to join up. She kept an ancient, raggedy looking toy by her pillow that might have been a black and white horse once. It was missing an eye and most of its mane now, and the sawdust stuffing peeked out of more than one split seam. Books littered her floor; carved bows and single-edged sgian-dubhs with carefully scratched runes lay next to partially completed stitch-work on a work bench. A shining claymore leaned against an old black and white rocking horse in one corner, both clearly well-loved over the years. A midnight blue velvet gown with delicate bead-work along the hem and collar had been carefully hung over the door of her wardrobe, and beneath it sat a pair of muddy oil-skin boots.

All these things and more Conall took notice of. Everything in the bedroom was sheer Merida; hard and soft, neither masculine nor feminine, but a constantly shifting blend of both. He filed everything away in a small, secret corner of his himself - one he rarely visited these days. Other things, other people, had taken her place.

If he were honest with himself, which he rarely was these days, Conall supposed he might have loved Merida once. But that was a long time ago and he had come to terms with those feelings, greeting them now like an old friend. But after she had fallen asleep in the kitchen he'd cradled her so close as he carried the sleeping Princess to her chambers, carefully and reverently as someone might ferry sacred relics. Merida wasn't light; her figure was full and he could feel the strength of her muscles even through the layers between them. The fire had dwindled in her bedroom, so he'd wrapped his over plaid around her before pulling the heavy covers and sheep skins over. He'd even brushed a curl of hair tickling her nose, fondly, then choked back a laugh as she snuffled deeper into the goose-feather pillows.

Merida was nothing like the Princesses from the tales he had loved so much as a wee lad. Back then he had enjoyed nothing more than squatting by the hearth in Castle MacGuffin and listening keenly to his father's men as they wove their stories, red-faced and jolly after one too many dram. He hadn't thought about it at the time, but with hindsight he realised how passive many of the women in those tales had been; faceless beauties to be acquired through feats of bravery by men.

As he'd grew up he came to appreciate just how strong and complex all of the women in his life were. His nursemaid, Gwenny, had been a wiry wee thing, but no one played a prank or told a dirty joke quite like her. His father's second wife, Nancy, had turn both man and beast to jelly with her sharp tongue. And of course, the story of his parents betrothal was famous across the land. Lord MacGuffin had returned from a failed (though Conall always suspected half-hearted) attempt to win the hand of Lady Elinor in a competition between the four Lords, and gone immediately to his mother's house to request her hand in marriage. She had answered his request with a headbutt.

What a fine woman, Lady MacGuffin had been.

Conall wondered what advice his mother would have offered him now. The Princess's words had cut him deeper than any sword. Her poor opinion of him hurt more than any physical blow ever could.

Worse was the fact that he had no means of proving his innocence. He couldn't prove why everyone believed the worst of him, but he had his suspicions. He should have confided in her earlier, trusted her to keep his concerns safe. Last night, when they had sat together in the kitchen chatting into the wee hours Conall had come so close too spilling everything, but the idea of sharing such a secret with the Princess seemed too intimate.

Still, that Merida could so readily believe the worst of him hurt deeply. That she had involved Dougal and Colin in her plans, but not him, stung more than a little. It felt like they had failed each other in their first test of friendship.

He'd been glad for the solid, locked door that parted them when Merida had said her harsh words. Conall didn't think he would have been able to take all that anger and bitterness levied at him. Worst of all, despite the fury in her voice, he could hear the hurt louder.

But none of that mattered now. Annis's threat hung heavy over him as he skidded down the slope of the games field, coming close to breaking his neck on the ice a couple of times. He started up the steep path to the castle, stumbling through the snow. He did not know if Annis had made her threat out of spite or if she had glimpsed Merida's fate, but Conall couldn't take the risk. Whatever Merida thought of him, he would not let her down again. Gossip and consequences be damned, he had to stop her from leaving the castle.

But as he approached the gates he heard the sound of a horse crashing through the snow towards him. He leapt off the road moments before a cloaked rider on a familiar black and white steed thundered by.

Conall's watched the receding rider disappear into the woods. Over the years, he had accompanied his father on visits to Dunbroch, well before the visit of those fateful games during which he'd made a poor attempt to win the Princess's hand. On those early visits he had spent most of his time keeping out of sight and mind in the stables, helping the stable hand with the horses. Conall knew Merida's beast by sight and by gait. There was no mistaking Angus.

Which meant the cloaked rider could only be-

Instantly, Conall scrambled to his feet, a gripping fear gnawing at his heart as he ran towards the stables.

 

**oOo**

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update! No excuses, I just completely forgot bwaha. ^^ Anyway, just a note on the snippet at the beginning. Conall Gulban was a Scottish mythic hero and his exploits are chronicled in JF Campbell's 20th c. Tales of the Highlands and Islands. The gruagach was essentially a type of brownie. Anyway, Conall Gulban was the reason I decided on Conall for Young MacGuffin's name, particularly due to the tale of Conall Gulban lifting the Heroes' Stone and taking it up and down the hill and back again. Stone lifting was a huge part of Scottish culture- if you had to sum up the heart of Scottish folklore you could probably do so just by talking about the people's relationships with the stones.


	10. A Pyre for the Bear Witch

**A Pyre for the Bear Witch**

 

 _'Nae man can tether time or tide;  
_ _The hour approaches Tam maun ride;  
_ _That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane,  
_ _That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;  
_ _And sic a night he taks the road in  
_ _As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in._

 _The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last;  
_ _The rattling showers rose on the blast;  
_ _The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd  
_ _Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd:  
_ _That night, a child might understand,  
_ _The Deil had business on his hand.'_

-Tam O' Shanter, Robert Burns

 

**oOo**

 

_21 years ago, one Samhain eve outside Castle Dunbroch._

 

“Make fun of me at yer own peril, _Husband_.”

“What, humble I? Make fun of mah Queen?” Fergus tossed his head and snorted at his heavily pregnant wife. “Perish the thought, love! I would never dream of makin' light of yer wee fantasies. After all, I am afflicted with that most rare and mortal disease.” He clasped one of her hands to his and brought it to his lips with a broad, suggestive grin. “Ah'm a husband who loves his wife.”

He waggled his eyebrows at her and Elinor rolled her eyes, batting him away.

“Uch! I'm serious, Fergus. The festival rites are important. You may not believe in their power, but I do.”

“Ah'm happy to go along with them, love, y'know I am,” he said, mopping his sweat-beaded brow. “But d' we really have to walk _Deiseil_? Three times round the castle?? I haven't even had dessert yet!”

“Oh wheesht, it's good for the baby.”

“So's sittin' down,” he grumbled.

Elinor ignored him and raised a hand to point out a bright speck in the inky black sky above their heads. It was the pole star, the tip of the Great Bear's tail. As a young girl, Elinor had spent nights at her window charting the route of the Bear's tail as it pointed to the east in Spring, to the south in Summer, marking the passage of each season as it travelled.

“A thousand generations before us have honoured the sun's passage by following the Great Bear's tail sunwise. Walking the _Deiseil_ is more than just a silly tradition, Fergus. It's a connection to our ancestors.” She gave him a sad smile. “My mother used to say fire was at the heart of it all. She would tell me the festival rites aid the sun's passage through mimetic magic. If the rites were ever ignored or forgotten, and the fires weren't lit, _the Lady O' the Cold_ would return to reign over an everlasting winter of ice and snow. ” Elinor chuckled at her husband's raised eyebrows and gave a small shrug. “Well, I didn't believe all of her tales. But they did scare me half to deat- _ooh!_ ”

Suddenly Elinor bent double with a pained cry. With a wince, one hand flew out to steady herself on the castle wall, while her other went to cover her stomach protectively. Fergus was at her side in an instant, holding her up and staring with wide, scared eyes.

“I'm ok,” Elinor reassured, straightening her back, though she readily accepted her husband's arm. “This wee monster just has her father's strength, that's all. Bloody Mabel, she kicks like a horse.”

Fergus blinked. “It's a girl?”

Elinor drew him an impatient look. “Of course it's a girl,” she replied peevishly, as if the explanation was obvious.

Fergus knew better than to question his wife any further. “C'mon. The sun can wait. Ah'm getting' you back home.”

“But-”

“But nothin', lass.” He petted her cheek. “We'll do yer thing tomorrow. Ah promise.”

With another wince, Elinor nodded reluctantly and allow him to shoulder her weight as they walked back the way they came into the castle grounds.

Ten hours later, the castle walls rang with the sound of a baby crying (a baby with her father's set of lungs, Elinor had remarked coolly). The rites were forgotten and celebrations turned to honour the birth of Dunbroch's new Princess, and if King Fergus had ever wondered why the winter was so fierce that year, or why it never seemed to end until his Queen performed the rites at Beltane the following May, he never shared his concerns.

 

**oOo**

 

Merida clung to Angus for dear life as they sped through the trees, the Clydesdale's large black head bowed low against the driving wind. The snow was getting deep, the storm more wild and the path into the hills treacherous. Up on the mountain range the wind was stirring the tops of the pines, rushing down the hillside into the valley with a chilling sound like a screaming banshee. Dunbroch was a stranger to her now. Snow tumbled down from the darkness, transforming the world into a strange and unfamiliar landscape: no rivers, no rocks, no paths, just an endless ocean of white hills and snow-clad woods. Even the trees felt different, rising up around her like tall dark sentinels, and their vicious branches snared Angus's mane and whipped at her eyes as they passed.  
  
As Angus cleared a fallen trunk in one leap, a strange sight caught Merida's eye. Hundreds upon hundreds of black birds wheeled to and fro in a frantic, deafening chorus above the trees. She frowned. The crows should have settled down to roost hours ago, especially with a storm brewing. Something had disturbed them.

Sure enough, as they rode on, Merida saw other creatures stirring. Soon the forest was alive with strange sights: flashes of light, lumbering figures the size of small knolls, and thorny half-formed shadows. Once, she even glimpsed a gaunt figure scuttling through the gloom; a little old man with glassy eyes and skin as brown as leather, but as her eyes tried to fix on him, he scurried out of sight like a beetle and disappeared deep into the snowy undergrowth. Angus had nearly thrown her in fright. Merida petted the anxious horse and murmured soothing words into his twitching ears, but she could feel his fear like it was her own. The whole forest thrummed with panic.  
  
Grimly, she thought back to the half-formed creature she had seen the night before at the edge of the games field. The wave of fear that caught her then almost knocked her sideways, for now her head swam with vague warning. It was like an ancient instinct was rising up in the space between the trees, spoken in a language she did not understand, but set the hairs on the back of her neck on end. It sounded like the distant beat of war drums...  
  
Merida urged Angus faster, but it was getting harder to see more than a few feet ahead and their path was hummocked with unbroken snowdrifts. She was almost certain they were lost when a sharp cry above their heads made her look up.  
  
" _Walker abroad! Walker abroad! To the West! To the West!_ "  
  
“It's the witch's crow!” she exclaimed, laughing with breathless relief. “C'mon lad, after him- _hya!_ ”  
  
She turned Angus sharply around to follow the wheeling black shape of the crow as it tumbled and zig-zagged madly through the trees. Even at a fast gallop it was hard to keep the bird's shaggy black body in sight through the white flurries.  
  
Finally they broke the treeline onto a high clearing. Without warning the full force of the gale hit them, stealing the breath from her lungs. Merida strained to look ahead, one hand outstretched, trying to shield her eyes from the sting of the driving snow.

Her heart sank as she saw where the crow had led her.

The thirteen megaliths of the _Clanach Sluagh_ rose up against the storm; thirteen figures of warped stone trapped by some ancient process, like old gods frozen mid-movement, their names long forgotten. At the heart of the stone circle a fire burned.  
  
Merida stared aghast as her eyes fell upon the Bear Witch. She had been tied to the pyre like a sacrifice at the centre of the broken circle of stones. The fire was starting to catch, jumping from log to log towards the old woman.  
  
“A sacrifice,” Merida whispered, as she recalled what the witch had said about the local villagers leaving 'sacrifices' at the stones; how this form of worship gave a god like the Cailleach its strength. Her eyes widened as realisation dawned. "Oh no.."  
  
She spurred Angus into a gallop towards the stones, kicking up snow and crashing over the fallen megalith that had once crushed Mor'du, sending men scattering as the enormous horse charged towards the fire. When Angus reached the bonfire, his massive hooves came crashing down on the pyre's base and Merida leapt into the heart of it. The flames had not yet climbed to the top where the Bear Witch sagged against her bonds. Ignoring the surprised and angry cries of her clansmen, Merida started work on the thick ropes, pulling and tugging to no avail. The witch was barely conscious, her eyes half-lidded and head lolling.  
  
"You've gone and inhaled too much smoke, old woman," Merida berated, coughing and hacking on the black curls of wood smoke rising up around them. It was already burning her throat and eyes.  
  
"Merida! What are yeh doin' here?" Fergus shouted, his deep voice full of panic. "Get down from there!"  
  
But she ignored him, reaching into her belt and pulling out a knife to saw at the ropes. "Come on, come on," she muttered desperately, eyeing the slow but steady crawl of the flames towards her. Men were clambering over the bonfire now as Fergus hollered at them to douse the flames, but the fire was uncontrollable, swallowing up branches and logs like a ravenous bear. Merida began to panic; she could feel the heat of the blaze uncomfortably close on her cheek now and she shook the witch's bony arms. "Come on! Do somethin', yeh old hag, I know yeh can! What good's magic if you cannae even use it to save yerself?!"  
  
She heard her father give a fearful cry, and turned to see the hem of her cloak catch alight. Merida leapt back with a yelp of surprise, stamping the flames of her cloak out and plastering herself against the bonfire's mast. As she did so, her knife slipped from her sweaty palm into the maze of embers below. At the foot of the pyre she could see her father attempt to straddle the leaping web of flames. Lord MacGuffin and MacIntosh grabbed Fergus by his shoulders, wrenching him back as the flames darted higher. Merida gripped the wooden beam behind her, feeling herself begin to shake. The noise of the storm and the bonfire, and the shouts of the soldiers running to and fro were deafening – then suddenly, something happened that caused the world to stop.  
  
The ground inside the stone circle trembled.  
  
Part of the pyre crumbled away with the force of the jolt.  
  
Angus gave a high-pitched whinny. He shook his mane and pawed at the ground, as a murmur went through the clansmen. Again, the earth jolted. Again, another portion of the fire fell away. Everything grew silent. For the first time, Merida noticed it wasn't snowing inside the circle. Perhaps she noticed because up until now the snow _hadn't_ fallen within it. In fact, the ground was still muddy and green as it had been in summer, but now a faint trickle of snow fell into the ring, like a threat from the storm that prowled around its perimeter.  
  
The third jolt was strong enough to knock some of the clansmen off their feet.  
  
The Bear Witch's eyes flew open.  
  
"Burn the ropes," she ordered.  
  
Merida goggled at her. "You're still alive?!"  
  
"Burn the ropes, you bushy-faced muppet! Are there any brains under all that hair?"  
  
Merida scowled at her, but grabbed a burning branch nonetheless and thrust it against the knot of ropes until they blackened and broke apart.  
  
"What's happening? Why's the earth moving?!"  
  
"Why'd yeh think?" the Bear Witch muttered darkly, as the tremors intensified. "It's _her._ "  
  
The ground lurched again, stronger this time, and this time it didn't stop. The last of the pyre began to crumble; Merida knew they would have to jump or be engulfed by the flames. She stuck her fingers in her mouth and whistled. Angus cantered towards her, wild-eyed and head jerking nervously. Merida scooped the old woman onto her back just as the pyre gave one last groan and began to collapse. She leapt, clearing the flames by a whisker, and landed on Angus's back with a bone-jarring jolt.  
  
"Easy boy, easy!" she tried to soothe him, but the tremors were so strong now the very stones were starting to tremble in their roots.  
  
The Lords and the soldiers were spooked too, and cries of a curse by the witch or _sith_ inhabiting the old stones went up as they backed towards the edge of the circle, wide eyed and terrified out their minds. Finally a couple of soldiers lost their wits and bolted for a gap between the stones. A deafening sound of crashing rock and rubble echoed around the valley like thunder as the very earth beneath their feet fell away to nothing, revealing great cavernous holes around the broken stone, like fresh graves. The men who had been fleeing the circle tumbled and fell into darkness.  
  
Fergus and the Lords ran to the gaping craters, but the gurgled screams that rose up from their depths stopped them in their tracks. Some gruesome fate had met those men down there. One last sacrifice to the auld stanes, down where they kept their deep roots.

"Aw no," the witch shook her head and tsked. "Well that's gone and done it."

Merida gave her disgusted look. "You say that like yeh've just burned the tea!"

"Much worse than burnt toast, dearie," the witch sniffed. "Things are gonnae get messy now. We have tae lead the Stoor Wyrm away from the circle."

Merida frowned. "The _what_?"

"It's the form she takes now, the Cailleach's spirit."

There came a wrenching crash and the wind paused, as if taking a breath. Then, in a dreadful furious moment a black mass rose up like a fountain of darkness. Angus reared, his fore-hooves lashing out, but Merida could only stare, transfixed by terror. The fear that accosted her nerves was like a sucking pit, crawling up her legs and arms until she could not feel anything but the heavy force of it upon her.

The Cailleach's shadow was like staring into breathing darkness; a massive, indistinct shape, like an armless torso, its neck too long and thin to hold the elongated head on top. Up it rose like an enormous worm, swaying higher and higher into the storm, taller than any tree, taller than the battlements of castle Dunbroch. It towered above them all, a dark inkblot against the white world. In its head one brilliant red eye blazed and swivelled madly in a gaping socket, searching for something. Snow trickled through the shapeless black body as if it were smoke, and strange blue lights hung inside its dark depths like suspended stars, pulsing faintly. Merida thought they looked like wisps.

The Lords and clansmen could only stare as she did, screams frozen in their throats as their minds tried to grapple with the enormity of the monster reaching above them. Even the Bear Witch was silent and her bony fingers dug painfully into Merida's sides. Nobody spoke. Nobody could. Not even as streamers of darkness drifted down from the creature swaying above them, raining like ash-drift from a fire. They were quickly followed by large leaking globules of a black-ish liquid, like old blood. Where they splashed on the ground, the earth turned instantly dead and grey, drained of all colour and life.

It wasn't until the first man dropped dead that they realised the creature rained death upon them.

Dougal jerked Colin off the ground seconds before a sluggish tendril of the black substance could land on the man's shoulder.

"Don't let the shadow touch you!" Fergus ordered, wrenching Lord MacGuffin away from his own near miss, and retreating from the creature with his sword arm raised. "Merida! Get back to the castle!"

But the witch tugged on the Princess's arm urgently.

"Take this,” said the Bear Witch sharply, and thrust a small, cold object into Merida's hand. “It is a hagstone. It may not look much, but it is a powerful object. As long as you have it, the Stoor Wyrm will follow you. As long as you keep it close, yer bound to her."

Merida opened her palm- it was a perfect circle of stone with a hole in its centre, ice cold and heavy like a weight. The surface was a polished reddish brown. It looked like nothing more than a river pebble.

The witch looked at Merida with steady grey eyes. “I'm askin' you to do a very dangerous thing, dearie. You understand that? If the Stoor Wyrm is allowed to stay here it will destroy all you hold dear.” She pressed her hand over the stone in Merida's hand. “With the hagstone you can change that fate.”

Merida stared at the stone. She could feel herself shaking. The witch's voice was far away, the blood in her ears thrummed to the beat of war drums beneath the earth that she know knew to be the awful chanting of the _Clanach Sluagh_. Their rage felt so real, the terror of them sunk their teeth into her and she began tremble uncontrollably.

Then she thought of her mother and brothers back at the castle; of Colin and Dougal who had become her kin through friendship rather than marriage. She saw her father standing with the Lords, his sword drawn ready for battle, and remembered the sad fate of Clan MacGuffin. Finally, she thought of a shy, awkward boy she had once known, and the strange distant man he had become; of pale eggshell blue eyes and a kind smile that had briefly lit a fire in her heart.

Merida's hand closed in a tight fist around the stone.

" _Sorry, Dad,_ " she whispered. Then she thrust the stone into the air and bellowed, "Cailleach Bheara!"

The single eye swivelling inside the shapeless thing's head snapped towards her, its body pulsating and hissing with rage, though it had no mouth to speak of.

"I know what you are! And I know what it is you're lookin' for!" she shouted, even as her hand around the stone trembled. Having the creature's full attention on her made her want to run and hide. But she was a Princess. She had duties. Responsibilities. Expectations. Her fist closed around the stone again as she turned Angus around. "If you want it, come an' get it yeh manky old hag!"

She kicked Angus into action and he launched into full gallop. With a shrill whinnying cry, Angus leapt out of the stone circle and plunged back into the storm. Instantly the wind screamed around them, whistling up Merida's sleeves and ripping at her cloak and hair. She couldn't see a thing through the driving snow now. The old woman's bony arms were wrapped in a death grip around Merida's waist as she clung to Angus. She didn't need to turn around to know the Cailleach was following, sluggish but furiously loud, its wormy body crashing through trees after them.

“For a shadow she sure makes a racket!” Merida shouted, shooting a nervous look over her shoulder. There was a hole in the creature's head now, a gaping black thing that looked disturbingly like a mouth.

The Bear Witch grinned wryly and winked. “Aye, and she's got a temper on her like a sullen wee wifey!”

Merida laughed with her. It was strange, she didn't feel the powerful force of Angus's hooves as they struck the ground, didn't feel the cold despite the frost spider-webbing across her hands and arms and face. Everything felt unreal, like this was all happening to someone else. All Merida felt was a peculiar calm and certainty: she could do this, she could fix things, she could make things right again.

Just like she also knew she was probably about to die.

But she wasn't alone, and that had to count for something. With one hand she covered the witch's own wrinkled hands where they gripped her around her waist, and squeezed.

Suddenly, Angus reared. A tendril of shadow had lashed out across their heads like a whip, the dark mass slamming into a spinney to their left where it smoked and withered the trees to their roots. Merida grabbed frantically at Angus's waving mane with both hands and ducked as a second inky black shape hurtled across their heads, but this time it was not the Cailleach.

“ _Kaaaaak – kaaaak!_ ”

“Oh aye, _now_ yeh show up,” the witch shouted, shaking a balled fist up at the ball of black feathers circling their heads. “You raggedy stinking coward, I should've turned you into a chicken years ago!”

Mid-flight, the crow still managed to ruffle his feathers at the old woman, indignantly. “I can't help it, I come from a long line of cowards! It's amazing I'm here at all!” the crow snapped. “ _This way, this way. Follow me!_ ”

With a jerk, Angus made a sharp turn to follow the witch's familiar into the thickest part of the forest. The storm was all around them now, drawn in like a net by the presence of the Cailleach's spirit. The sky growled and the mountain rumbled to the deafening beat of drums deep underground. Winds blew and blustered from all four corners, snapping like dogs at Angus's fetlocks. It pitched and flung them, tried to hurl Merida and the witch from their seat on the Clydesdale's back, to slam them against rock and tree and shatter their bones.

But now defiance surged through Merida's veins. She'd never put much stake or faith in stupid old gods. Besides, she was the Princess of Dunbroch. These were _her_ lands and she'd be damned if some crabbit old deity would take them from her.

The crow knew the woods well and his zigzagging route through the trees had put some distance between them and the creature slithering after them. Feeling bolder, Merida half-turned in her saddle and shot a crude gesture at the single red eye she could see glowing like a torch through the forest gloom.

“C'mon you lang-nibbed dopey old God!” she jeered. “Yeh call this a race?! You could'nae outrun a lame coo!”

Behind her, the witch cackled gleefully. “Aye, is this all you've got in you now, Bheara? You've grown fat an' slow over the years, yer _Majesty_!”

“Ma' granny moves faster than you and she's deid!”

“Off with you, you puddock-face hinzzie!”

“Aye, beat it yah great big spoon heid!”

“YEH LIMP-BAGPIPE!”

“YAH SCABBY TATTIE!”

“YEH- _tree!_ ”

“Haha, aye- wait, tree? Ho _shi-_ ”

Too late, Merida felt her hands ripped from their clutches on Angus's mane as the Clydesdale jerked his head so fiercely to avoid collision that he tottered and let out a high-pitched cry – then Merida was falling through empty space, the snow white world up-ending around her in blur of motion over and over again.

She hit the ground hard and rolled, the shock of the fall forcing the air out of her lungs as she crashed down into the snowy undergrowth.

For a few moments she could only lie there in the deep snow, stunned and winded. In her snowy cot, the muffled world almost seemed peaceful again, the deep mountain drums turned to a soothing lullaby. Snow trickled down to catch in her eyelashes and her breath rose up in puffs of white cloud into the branches of a tree above. She stared. Despite the danger coming towards her, Merida couldn't help but gawk at the enormity of the yew sprawling above her head. It looked like it had been dead a long time. Just a tangled mass of long, reaching, black arms clawing at the wind. She imagined they looked like dead men's fingers, broken, twisted and grasping for whatever living thing had the misfortune to pass through them. The odd thought came swiftly and without warning, and her stomach gave a sickening lurch when she caught sight of the tattered remains of a bird's wing here and there, impaled upon knife-edge fingers. Then other images and sounds came to her: ropes twisting and straining, branches creaking under weight, a mournful cry... a strangled choking...

The witch' face popped into view. Her wiry eyebrows drew together in concern as she followed Merida's gaze up.

“Bad to stare at it it too long, dearie.”

Merida glared. There wasn't a single scratch on the witch. She had survived the fall completely unscathed. “I'm starting to think you're indestructible,” she muttered ruefully.

“Och, _flatterer!_ Not completely.” The witch gave her a toothy grin and offered a hand. “Come on girl, up you get. No time for your biting wit. The Stoor Wyrm will have trouble finding and breaching this _neimheadh_. She's no' at full power without her body, but it won't take her long. And we willnae get very far without your great daft steed.”

With a quick glance at her surroundings, Merida saw they were stood on a small hillock, completely bare but for the enormous yew crowning its rocky peak. Tall oaks surrounded the knoll at its base, their curling overhead so that the hill and yew were completely hidden. Angus was nowhere in sight. In the distance, a long whinnying cry could be heard disappearing into the storm.

“Angus?” Merida's eyes grew wide as she staggered to her feet with a wince. “ANGUS! _Ow_ -” She snapped her head back to the Bear Witch, who had plucked three strands of hair from her head. “What did you do that for?!”

The witch ignored her, weaving the red hairs into a series of complicated knots around a straw figure she had procured from one of her many pockets. Merida could only watch, baffled, as the witch carried her strange ministrations.

“What are you doing?” she asked incredulously. “Have you lost yer mind??" Exacerbated, she pointed down into the woods behind them. "If the Cailleach's spirit-that _Stoor beastie_ or whatever you call it can still find us here, we have to leave!”

The witch shrugged. “No point in running, dearie, not any more.” She looked up at Merida, eyes narrowing sternly. “You still have the hagstone?”

“Aye- OW!” She swore as the witch grabbed her wrist and pricked her pinkie finger with a pin, smearing the little drop of blood that bubbled forth onto the straw figure. When she was done, Merida snatched her hand away to suck on her fingertip, petulantly. “Would you _please_ stop takin' bits of me without askin'?!”

The wind growled through the yews, making the hairs on the back of her neck prickle in warning.

The witch's crow landed on a boulder nearby, kaw-ing nervously. “She's at the edge of the Nemeton. Won't take her long to break in.”

“Ooch, could she no' give us a wee bit more time?” the witch huffed to herself, and hurried over to the large oak. At its roots, she bent and began to dig a small hole in the snow.

“What's a- a _Nemeton_?” Merida asked.

“Good grief, doesn't that mother of yours ever teach you anything worth learnin'? A _neimheadh_ is a sacred grove. My kin have used them for hundreds of years.”

Merida narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Used them for _what_ , exactly?”

“Oh y'know, the usual. Meetings, dances, catch-ups, the odd sacrifice.”

“Hold on- s _acrifice??_ ”

The witch ignored her. “Course, this one's a wee bitty different from others. Long before Mor'du became the hairy galoot you tangled with, back when he was still a Prince, he would bring his enemies here, men and women who dared oppose his rule.” She pressed her palm against the rough bark, a shadow passing over her face. “Each man, woman and child was cut, hung and buried alive on this tree.”

Merida looked up at the shivering bony fingers of the hangman's tree and felt her mouth run dry. “That's barbaric.”

“Aye, well, there was a belief then that a threefold killing would give you power over the deceased in the otherworld, but who can say what goes through a man's mind. 'Specially a hot mess of a man's like Mor'du,” she added with a grunt. Then her gaze hardened. “Magic like that changes an old knoll like this. Blights it, makes it rotten, just as it did the stone circle. But it will suit our purposes.”

As the old woman placed the straw figure inside the hole she had dug, Merida felt a change come over the Nemeton; a kind of stillness, like the world was holding its breath. Suddenly she knew the Cailleach had found them.

Scanning the clustered trees around them, Merida reached back and tugged at the witch's shawl. The storm went silent, the howling winds pulled back to heel, but she could see the tops of the surrounding pine trees begin to stir and part, as if someone or something was rising up between them. Merida shook the witch's arm again, this time more violently. Her nerve was starting to fail her again. Being so close to the Cailleach was like standing on the cliff-edge of madness.

“ _Hurry up,_ ” Merida hissed through her teeth. “It's here!”

The Bear Witch stood, dusting her hands, and said cheerfully, “Good. Here is where I shall meet her.”

Merida blinked. “What?” Her heart turned cold as the old woman's words sank in. “No. _No._ ”

Ignoring her, the old woman rose to throw an icy ball of snow at the crow.

“Off with you now, yeh mangy beast!” she shouted, shooing her hands at him. The crow hopped aside, looking almost hesitant, until the witch tossed another missile at him for good measure. “You know what to do. Don't you dare leave her!”

With a last ' _Kaak!_ ' the tatty bird flapped up into the sky to disappear amongst the branches of the hangman's tree. Then the witch turned back to the Princess with a weary smile, grasping both of her shoulders firmly. Merida was surprised by the old woman's iron grip.

“Follow the crow. Goodness knows he'll drive you round the bend, but no other living creature knows _that place_ like a crow does, dearie." The witch paused. "Just.. don't name him. Name a thing like that and it'll never let you live it down,” she snickered, but the laughter didn't reach her tired eyes. “If you do lose yer way, look up to the lights. They'll guide you home again.”

But Merida was shaking her head. Her eyes were prickling and hot, and she shrugged the witch's hands off with a fiercely defiant look. “Forget it! I made a promise to deal with you ma'self. You're comin' with me, old woman! We just- we need to figure out a way to trap the worm. Like yeh trapped her before!”

“The stone circle's broken, lass. Its magic's turned sour. There is no way t' trap her there again.”

“Then we'll find a way to _fix_ it!”

The temperature plunged. Hoar frost webbed its way up the base of the trees and across the floor of the clearing, and after it – Merida staggered back on her heel – after it came the slow sick crawl of that awful blackish mass. All brightness went out of the snow and a rotten smell filled the air, like a wounded animal trapped in a warren. She knew now that something awful was happening. It was Samhain's Eve. The veil between this world and the next was lifting, and more than the Cailleach was leeching through the gossamer-thin mantle into the world of the living. The Cailleach was drawing with her old forgotten things out of the earth, like poison from an infected wound. Bad air filled the grove. Merida's vision swam with it. So much so, she did not notice the giant worm rising over the trees above them, too big; too big to comprehend.

The Stoor Wyrm's head lolled on the black stem of its body, its one eye flashing crimson at the Nemeton, but the creature did not appear to fully see them. The Nemeton, whatever its power, hid them still.

Merida staggered, her mouth falling open as she stared helplessly up at the monster through the white vapour of her breath. The Bear Witch caught her arms in an iron grip once more.

“I'm sorry I have to ask this of you, lass, but if anyone can it's you. I have faith.” The old woman paused, then hunched her shoulders slightly. “ _Weeell_ mostly. I'm not always right about these things, but!” She clapped a hand on Merida's shoulder. “I have _at least_ 49% trust in you.”

“That's 51% doubt,” Merida stammered, half paying attention. She couldn't tear her eyes away from the creature above them.

“Listen to me,” the witch's voice turned softer, gentler. “You need to keep the Stoor Wyrm from finding the Snow Walker. That's the Cailleach's original body. If the two are reunited, the Cailleach will reform and the storm that claimed Clan MacGuffin's stronghold won't just cover Dunbroch. It'll mean winter has _won_. And she won't let a single living soul share her victory. Do you understand?”

“But, no-I..” Merida snapped to, her eyes growing wide with fear and panic. “You can't leave me – I can't do this alone! I-” Her chest felt tight and desperate. “You never even told me yer name!"

The Bear Witch chuckled. “If I ever had one, I don't remember it. But...” she paused, a fond distant look in her eyes. “...an old friend o' mine called me Bhu once. That'll do fer you, dearie."

Before Merida could react, the Bear Witch let go of her arms and shoved her, _hard_ , towards the hangman's tree. At the same moment, the worm-like shadow of the Cailleach broke through the Nemeton's barrier, its eye flashing like hot coals and hooked teeth gleaming in its too-big head.

Arms wind-milling, Merida braced herself to hit the tree, but the impact never came. She fell and kept on falling, the world rushing up and up as if she were passing straight through it into nothingness. Everything towered over her as she plummeted; the branches of the hangman's tree, the returning blizzard, snow, ice, wind and pine – and finally the Bear Witch, small, alone and still smiling at her as the Stoor Wyrm bore down on her with open ripping jaws.

The last thing Merida saw was the faint blue lights trapped in the shadow's long body.

Then everything was darkness.

And as the veil rose to let the dead out, allowing flow and passage from one side to the other, so too did it allow the living in...

 

 

**oOo**

 

Five years ago, Conall MacGuffin had joined the King and his men on a hunt through these very woods. They had hunted a bear – a bear they had believed to have killed the King's beloved wife.

After the events of that fateful night, Conall had heard the Princess's fantastic tale told in full as she entertained a hall full of rapt listeners from each clan with the same vigour and enthusiasm her father had for storytelling. Songs were quickly penned by travelling bards and the Princess's story became famous throughout the kingdom; a legend of magic, witches and wisps.

But Conall MacGuffin never expected to see the cold blue glow of a willo-the-wisp for himself.

His borrowed grey mare shied as the first blue flame darted onto their path, beckoning him with a haunting reed-like whistle. It disappeared, only to reappear further into the woods, calling softly.

Conall gripped his reins, hesitating. Tales of willo-the-wisps were different in his part of the kingdom, considered capricious wee devils who more often delighted in leading you to your doom than your fate. But as the darkness of night deepened around him, Conall realised he had no idea where he was or where he was going. He had been following Merida's tracks through the trees, but they had disappeared under piles of fresh snow ages ago.

Twitching his borrowed horse around - Queen Elinor's own grey mare, Brigid - Conall leaned into his saddle and rode hard after the beckoning lights. One after the other the wisps lit up the mountainside, a constellation of pulsing blue flames.

A sense of urgency was growing in him. The storm that had been blowing so fierce had dropped almost instantly, but rather than hope, the strangeness of it filled him with worry. Conall didn't even stop to pause as his grey mare galloped through the ring of standing stones, leaping over the smoking remains of a pyre. Instinct, or some other force at work, told him to trust the wisps lighting up the woods into the mountainside.

He caught glimpses of his clansmen, however, looking lost and bewildered amongst the ancient solemn stones. Some sat on their haunches, staring blankly into a deep pit in the ground, or stood taking long swigs from their sheepskin flasks. Conall grit his teeth- he'd seen those looks before. It was the haunted look men wore after battle. For a brief moment he caught Dougal MacIntosh's eye. His friend's eyes were wide with fear and regret, and ringed with heavy shadows. Beside him, Dingwall was staring solemnly into a small fire, his gaze hard and clear as ice.

Conall didn't stop, pushing his horse to full froth into the woods. A feeling of cold dread was growing in his gut.

It wasn't until he heard the anguished voices of a search party cry out among the trees that Conall realised why he had not seen King Fergus or the Lords with the other men. They were looking for the Princess too.

Snow turned to an icy wet sleet that trickled down the back of his shirt, plastering his hair to his forehead. Thunder boomed far over the mountain range, but the storm had drawn back for now. There was no moonlight though, just the ghostly light of the pale blue flames flitting through the trees, leaping and whirling through snow-burdened thickets, ancient rocks and over frozen streams, bursting into life faster and faster until suddenly they stopped.

He knew he'd found her even before the last wisp blew out like a candle.

Conall MacGuffin was no stranger to grief. He had lost his beloved mother to a Norseman's raid and two of his young brothers to the great storm. Even his home was no more, buried under a mountain of snow and ice. Grief hit you harder than any fist could, ate away at the raw parts of you until you accepted it was just something that was always going to be by your side, like a second shadow. It wasn't something you forgot, especially if you had lost someone as early on in life as Conall had. He supposed he'd developed a sort of instinct for loss as a result.

Which is why he wasn't surprised when he found the body in the woods.

But it didn't stop the fresh grief from striking him like a knife wound to the chest.

Numbly, Conall dismounted from the Queen's mare and climbed a small knoll until he reached the base of a large oak tree. He didn't dare breathe. Didn't dare make a sound. A strange sort of paralysis had come over his nerves and he moved without feeling or thinking. Icy sleet turned to lashing rain as he finally knelt over the Princess's body.

Merida was slumped between two of the oak tree's roots, her blue eyes still open and her skin deathly pale and freezing to the touch. Frost caked her nose, lips and eyelashes. He reached out to pass a hand over her eyes, closing them for the last time. Then something in him finally broke and he curled around her, his broad shoulders shaking as he choked out a soundless sob. She was dead. The Princess – no, Merida was dead. His mind lashed out at the impossibility, but he'd been here before too recently. Conall knew the drill. There was no use fighting it, and the awful reality swamped him with grief. Still he couldn't bring himself to return with her just yet. Returning to the clans meant facing the reality of a lifetime without Merida. He wasn't ready. He wasn't sure he ever would be.

Conall could still hear King Fergus calling her name somewhere amongst the tall pine sentinels, his booming voice carrying for miles across the valley. His heart broke for his king and he knew it was selfish to keep Merida from her father any longer.

He scooped Merida's body into his arms just as he had done the night before, when she had fallen asleep in the kitchen by his side, curled into him. His heart ached so much he could barely stand. He held her tighter as the tears ran down his cheeks, begging her forgiveness and wishing he could go back to that night, that the two of them could stay in that place forever, just talking, laughing, telling stories, her hand laced in his like it was the most natural thing in the world. Now Merida would never look at him again. Never look at anyone again.

But as he got to his feet, a strange realisation cut through his grief. Horrified and confused, he stared at the body in his arms. Something wasn't right. The body Conall held in his arms was unnaturally light. It must have weighed no more than a corn doll. But that was impossible.

Blue light pulsed back into life at the bottom of the ancient oak, followed by another, and another, until they ringed the tree. Round and round they danced, circling the tree clockwise while chanting softly, like a southerly wind whistling through river reeds. Three times round they danced, glowing brighter and brighter with each circuit, before winking out of existence once more.

What had Merida said about wisps? They led you to your fate.

When he returned to the sight of the stone circle, King Fergus and the Lords had returned to prepare a proper search party for the missing Princess.

Lord MacGuffin was the first to run to him, swearing loudly in his relief at finding his son safe. But the Lord's joy was short-lived. He had to coax his son into releasing his protective grip on the Princess's body. Conall was white as a sheet, numb with shock and soaked through, but the idea of letting Merida go looked enough to break him. He felt his father squeeze his arm and speak soothing words, but neither fully registered.

“ _Son_.”

His felt his father's hand touch his head, gently. He looked up, tears filling his eyes, and his iron grip on Merida eased a little.

“Ah know, lad. Ah know,” Lord MacGuffin hushed, his rich deep voice cutting through the shock. “C'mon. Her father needs t' see her, son.”

Conall knew it was cowardly, but he was grateful that his father was the one to place the Princess's body into the King's arms, grateful that he didn't have to be the one faced with the begging look of lost confusion in Fergus's eyes before the awful truth hit him. He didn't think he would ever forget the sound the Bear King made afterwards. Conall could only stand between his father and Dougal, and watch as their King, who'd so fearlessly taken on Mor'du, crumple and break apart, Fergus's eyes agonized and bereft as he howled his grief into the damp quiet of night.

Neither his father nor the King appeared to have noticed the unnatural lightness of the Princess's body. But as they rode back to Castle Dunbroch in heavy silence, his own shock began to part, like mist, and as it did, clarity and a sense of certainty began to take root in his heart: the frozen body in the King's arms may look like the Princess, but that wasn't Merida.

 

**oOo**

 


	11. The Bone Mother

_'Nicnevin with her nymphes, in number anew_  
_With charms from Caitness and Chanrie of Ross_  
_Whose cunning consists in casting a clew'_  
  
\- Alexander Montgomeri, 1580

 

**_Two weeks ago_ **

   
Snow fell in blinding flurries and the storm howled around them. The journey was hard going. Connall struggled to put one foot after the other, sinking knee deep into the fresh drifts with every step while the four winds buffeted him from all sides.

"We have to release the horses!" his father bellowed over the roaring wind. "They'll never make it doon the mountainside in this!"

"Dad, naw!" Connall's heart sank and his hand moving instinctively towards the soft muzzle of his horse. He had dismounted a few miles back as the deep drifts became more treacherous. "We cannae jist-"

"Ahm sorry, son, but we willnae make it any further wi' them." Still astride his own horse, Lord MacGuffin stroked a gentle hand down the neck of his own horse. "And they cannae make it much further like this. It'd be cruel tae force them t' go on saddled wae us."

"But if we leave 'em they'll die!" Connall protested loudly, surprising himself. He rarely spoke out against his father, but he couldn't abandon the animals to such a miserable fate. He leaned into his mare's long dappled neck and felt her push into her bit with a small, weak whinny.

Lord MacGuffin's mouth set in a grim line. Thick frost clung to his heavy brow and eyelashes. "They've a better chance waeout us, lad. _Y'know_ they do."

Connall's eyes flew up, hearing the underlying meaning in his father's words - the danger beyond the storm that hunted them day and night.

 

 

Lord Alastair MacGuffin and his first son had been among the last to abandon their ancestral home, having battled to keep the castle from being completely submerged by the great snow drifts and freezing blasts sweeping in from across the sea. But they had lost the battle before it had begun. Lord MacGuffin was proud, but not so proud to place his own ego before the lives of his subjects. And so, alongside the handful of clansmen who had stayed behind to fight, they left the MacGuffin stronghold to winter and ruin. But rather than rejoin the rest of their clansmen and women making their way swiftly to Clan MacIntosh territories, Lord MacGuffin had ordered they warn surrounding settlements of the coming danger. That was the kind of man his father was, Connall thought proudly.

Surprisingly, most of the families they encountered had refused to leave their land. Later, when Connall asked his father why he hadn't simply commanded them to go, Alastair explained, "It isn't so easy for them. These are farming people, son. They canna just up and flee with their cattle. And it's mair than that. Many o' these families have lived and toiled on this ancient land since folk first settled here. The earth is as much a part o' them as their ane flesh an' bone. Leavin' it would be like leavin' a family member behind."

"Is that how yi felt?" Connall had ventured, timidly. "After leavin' hame?"

Lord MacGuffin had clapped a hand on his shoulder then, and smiled. "Our castle was just bricks 'n mortar, son. Flesh 'n blood is whit matters tae me." The Lord's tone grew solemn and his gaze turned distant with the grief he had shouldered since Niall and Shae had been lost. "Now mair than ever."

Connall almost felt the journey was a blessing in disguise. He missed his brothers dreadfully, but the blow had been even worse for his father. At first Connall had not understood how Alastair could carry on, throwing himself into duties immediately after word came of Niall and Shae's deaths. Now Connall understood it was the only thing keeping his father going.

As their party travelled from village to farm, Lord MacGuffin left strict instructions in each home to board up the shutters and doors. "Don't let yer little ones out. Stay inside when possible, keep the fires blazing and a sharp eye to the north."

But the further they travelled, new stories met them. Warnings, not of the oncoming storm, but of a strange beast prowling the land at night. Some swore blind the demon bear Mor'du had returned, but Connall and his father had seen the bear slain first hand. Stranger still, there were peculiar inconsistencies with the Mor'du legend. The Princess of Dunbroch had revealed the true identity of Mor'du as nothing more than a man - a greedy Prince who had fallen under a curse that had gifted him with the strength of ten men, but the shape of a bear. Monstrous though Mor'du had been, he had still been an animal of flesh and blood. But if the villagers Lord MacGuffin and his men encountered were to be believed, the pale beast that stalked the land could move through hill and wood like a wraith, solid one moment, translucent as mist the next. It could change size, too. Sometimes people claimed they had glimpsed on the horizon, moving with a limping, rolling gait, its vast and shapeless body the size of a mountain. Others claimed it was roughly the size of a tall fir tree, not shapeless or hunch-backed but standing upright, like a man, with gaping black burrows in its head for eyes. It was also cunning and wickedly clever. The farming men called the creature a Snow-Walker and swore blind it had worked out every trap they had set for it.

Their band of travellers hadn't journeyed much farther before they too became alarmingly aware of something lurking in the hills. Little hints here and there: strange footprints in the snow; a pale shadow on the crest of a hill at night; the long, low whine of a beast he could not identify, far off, but still too close for comfort. The other clansmen riding with them heard the wailing too, Connall knew they did. It was impossible to ignore the high mournful cry reverberating around the hilltops, thrumming bone deep in his chest. But nobody dared bring it up. It was easy to become superstitious out on these lonely hills. Too easy to imagine the awful wail was the cry of a grey faced washerwoman, heralding their fates.

As they journeyed across the unseasonably wintry landscape, the men grew more fearful, whispering amongst themselves. Was the dreadful cry they had heard the scream of a banshee? Did the monstrous footprints belong to a bear, hunting them over frozen river and knoll, driving them into the ancient forest separating the MacGuffin lands from Clan MacIntosh's? Privately, Connall wasn't convinced. Something was off about the shape of the bloody footprints they occasionally found loping off into the silent woods. They were too large, too long. Another private part of him toyed with the idea the footprints looked vaguely human. That was what kept him up at night.

At first Lord MacGuffin refused to acknowledge the men's increasingly absurd worries; the footprints belonged to a bear or mountain lion, and that was that. But Connall knew the cry they had heard was not that of a bear's. He also knew from experience that farmers were not prone to telling tall tales. Whatever it was they had seen, they believed in it. The idea of a beast with the strength of Mor'du and the intellect of a human chilled Connall, but not nearly as much as the fleeting glimpse of the creature's shadow on the mountainside. Still, Lord MacGuffin would have none of it.

And then one night, the first of their group disappeared. Connall had liked him. He had been a jovial lad, a few years younger than him, who kept their spirits high at night with daft half-formed songs and tall tales. It didn't take them long to find the Snow-Walker's bloody footprints leading deeper into the ancient wood. Lord MacGuffin had followed the trail on his own, returning shortly with a grim face and a piece of ragged plaid in his hand.

The poor lad wasn't the last to disappear. The next few nights continued much the same as the first, huddled around a fire trying their hardest not to fall asleep, but eventually bitter cold and fatigue would lull them all into deep sleep. That's when the Snow-Walker came. Soon their party dwindled from ten men to six, and then four and then two, until one morning Connall woke to find he and his father were the only ones left. That was when they decided to abandon the woods altogether and take the risky passage over the mountain range to Dunbroch.

 

A sudden blast of icy wind caught them both off guard as the storm attacked with renewed vigour.

"We cannae last much longer out here, son. We're too exposed!" Lord MacGuffin bellowed from astride his dark horse. "We need tae-" but Alastair's words were cut off with a surprised cry. The freshly fallen snow had hidden a steep drop to the foot of the mountain they had been contouring. His horse plunged head first, snapping its neck in the fall, and dragging the Lord down with her.

"DAD!"

Panicked, Connall let go of his own mare and lunged for his father's hand before he disappeared over the ridge, but the feathery layer of snow crumbled to nothing the moment he put his weight on it. Down he plunged, the world a blur of rushing grey and white. There was no controlling his limbs against the speed and momentum of his fall. The snow scorched his skin like fire and Connall tumbled head over knees, faster and faster, with nothing to slow his descent. He felt a sharp dagger of rock tear into his arm and another object strike his sternum, punching the air violently out of his lungs. The last thing he registered was a dull shock of pain as something hard struck his forehead, before slipping into fogginess.

When Connall came to, he was dimly aware of voices, high and tinkling, like glass bells. He tried to open his eyes but found he could only open one. His left eye must have been matted over with blood and plastered hair. He winced, touching it gingerly. Everything ached. It felt like not an inch of him had been spared a bruising in the fall. With his good eye he searched desperately for his father. There, to the far right of him, was the body of his father's mare, already covered in a fresh coat of snow.

Connall felt his heart stop. He could make out an arm and the crown of a blonde head from underneath the poor beast. He tried to cry out, but his voice was gone. He struggled to get feeling back into his arms and legs again. This couldn't be their fate. They couldn't die out here, too. The clan needed his father more than ever now. He had to get him back to them!

High, tinkling voices came again, clearer now. Now Connall was sure it wasn't the wind playing tricks, but all he could see through the colourless snow was the high rocky cliff side they had tumbled down, and a copse of tall dead trees ahead.

"It's still alive."

"Which one?"

"The two legged one."

"Och well _obviously,_ ya numpty."

"They all smell off tae me."

"Everythin' smells aff tae that twiggy wee nose of yours."

"Take that back ya fat lump of clay, or I'll turn yer heed intae a-"

"Quiet."

The last voice was steely cold and commanded authority. Connall shivered drawing into himself instinctively as the sound of light footsteps crunching across the snow drew closer. Still he could see nothing, but strangely the copse of dead trees seemed closer than before.

Feeling panic start to rise, he began to heave himself towards the place where his father lay trapped under the body of the horse, praying to the gods he was still alive. Every movement was agony and he was certain the fall had done some damage to his head and bruised his ribs, but a growing urgency pushed him on.

"Dad," Connall managed to rasp out as he fell to his knees by his father, dipping an ear close to his mouth and listening intently. His heart soared. Lord MacGuffin was still breathing, but only barely; a horrible, wet rasping sound. Gently, carefully, Connall brushed the hair out his father's face, checking his head for injuries.

"It's no use, boy. Your father is dying. He belongs to the Cailleach now."

Connall fell back with a cry of surprise. A spidery thin woman towered over them. A velvet black cloak stitched with silver thread fell from her shoulders, hiding her arms and legs from view so that she appeared like some nightmarish spectre; a tree risen up from the snow, wrapped in a mantle of starry night with her face as the crowning moon. There was no white to her eyes and her dark hair was woven into a crown of hawthorn and mistletoe.

For a moment Connall thought he would never be able to tear his gaze from her. It wasn't that she was particularly beautiful, but there was a dreadful quality to her that made him afraid to turn away. Crowding behind her was the most peculiar host of beings he had ever laid eyes on. They scuttled around the tall lady, some thin, some fat, some feathered, long nosed and narrowing beady eyes, others fair of face but sharp of teeth. All watched him hungrily.

Fearfully Connall realised that what he had taken to be a skeletal copse of trees was in fact this band of strange folk, like the kind he had heard people tell of in stories. The fae folk from the hollow hills. _Witches_.

His father gave a hacking cough, a wheezing strangled sound that made Connall's heart lurch and shook him out of the spell the tall lady had on him.

"S'long as ma' da's git air in 'is lungs he'll git back tae his clan," Connall bit out fiercely, moving to wedge his shoulder under the body of the horse crushing his father's chest. If he could only get the right angle he might be able to budge the poor beast just enough. His muscles screamed in pain as he struggled to lift the weight, face turning red with the pain and exertion. His own wounds ached like no pain he'd ever experienced.

"His lungs are crushed ya big dafty," one of the hunched creatures behind the tall lady cackled, gnashing foul rotten teeth at him.

"He's no' deid yet," Connall growled back.

"Gie it some laldy then!"

"Heave ho!"

"Naw, leave him tae us!" another hag argued. "Not all of us can afford the meals that put aw that meat on yer bones, fattychops!"

Connall tried to ignore the goading voices that joined in, laughing and hooting as he tried in vain to shift the horse, but he could feel the doubt creeping into his tired muscles. Tears of frustration prickled in his eyes. He wouldn't leave his father to these monsters. Their clan needed him. _Connall_ needed him. The goading grew louder and more ruckus. Now the hags were dancing around him, pinching and pulling at his hair, throwing rocks and kicking snow at him with webbed and bird-like feet. Blood was beginning to rush to his head as the fogginess threatened to take over again.

"Son, it's okay. It's okay, son." Lord MacGuffin's voice was barely a whisper as he struggled to breathe through his crushed lungs.

"Dad!"

"Ye have tae leave... clan needs ye.. have to go to them. Have to ..tell Fergus.. tell Fergus..the Snow-Walker.." Alastair lifted a hand to his son's cheek and a rare smile pulled at his mouth. "S'okay, lad, s'okay.. Ah'll be with Niall 'n Shae."

Connall was shaking his head, choking back sobs. "No, Dad, yi cannae- I willnae let yi! I can get yi hame, e'en if ah hiv tae carry yi maself, ah'll get yi hame!"

Alastair huffed out a laugh. "We've nae hame to go hame to."

"Then tae Dunbroch! We're a'most there Da', it's nae far, ah kin get yi there!"

"Can ah no jist have a wee nibble?" One of the hags - a wiry, round-shouldered bog creature that was mostly scraggly hair, teeth and pointed nose - had scuttled in close, her wickedly sharp fingers clawing at Lord MacGuffin's booted feet. "Jist while he's still fresh?"

"GET BACK!" Connall roared, reaching for the axe belted at his side and swinging it at the hag's head with such ferociousness he surprised himself. The hag hissed and leapt back, missing the blade by a hair. Connall wasted no time. Anger was coursing through him now, anger and adrenaline. Again he heaved his weight against the dead horse, pushing and lifting with everything he had. Finally he felt the body give an inch! tThen another, and another, until at last the horse was off and his father was free of the crushing weight.

Lord MacGuffin gasped for breath, but it was a horrible sound, choked with pain and blood. Crimson lit up the snow as he struggled for his next lungful of air, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Connall pulled his father's head onto his lap, trying to soothe him. Wearily, he took real note of their predicament. The storm had dropped. It was still bitterly cold, but there wasn't a breath of wind and the afternoon was drawing to a close. The near wood at the foot of the hill was temptingly still and silent, but within it Connall knew the Snow-Walker still hunted. Soon it would be dark. The group of hags were keeping their distance after his outburst, but he had a sinking feeling their bravery would return with nightfall.

The adrenaline was draining fast and Connall's hands began to tremble uncontrollably. He reached up to touch his temple where blood matted his hair and trickled down the side of his face, glueing one eye shut. All of a sudden he felt bone tired. All he wanted to do was lie down and close his eyes for a few minutes. Surely a few minutes wouldn't hurt? Just a short nap.

But as his eyes drew closed a flash of an image came to him unbidden- a girl with red hair and wild impatient eyes, hands balled into fists at her side as she leaned over him, talking, yelling words he couldn't make out. He felt himself smile wryly. He had the feeling the Lady Merida, that fine quine who won her own hand and fought the demon bear Mor'du single-handed, would never forgive him if he dared give in to sleep now.

Connall tried to sit straighter, but the world around him no longer seemed seem real. Sluggishly, he turned to look back at the tall lady. The lady in turn had been watching him with idle curiosity.

"You say your father is a Lord, boy?" she asked curtly.

Connall frowned, slurring his words as he replied, "Aye. Lord MacGuffin. Bravest n' fairest there is."

"I don't care much for either trait," she replied coolly. "But you may be of use."

With one hand, she parted her cloak so that it hung from the back of her shoulders, revealing ghostly pale flesh. Horror gripped Connall's heart as his eyes fell on her right arm. The limb was much larger than the other, and longer too; withered and striped like the bark of a silver birch. Each willowy finger was a dagger of twisting branch.

He flinched as she came closer, raising the hand towards him.

"You wish me to save your father's life?"

"Ah ken..whit yi are.. " he said, struggling to make words.

"Oh?"

"Ah hiv a... a friend. A fine quine.. hae met one o' yer kin b'fore." His heart was hammering in his chest, but Connall made himself look the tall lady in the eye. "Yer a witch."

Laughter erupted from the clustered group of hags and for the first time a smile pulled at the tall woman's lips.

"She's THE witch, boy!"

"Queen o' the Hags!"

"Lady o' the Host!"

"Head o' the Wild Hunt!"

"The Bone Mother her very self!"

The lady raised her evil hand and the hags fell back into silence, but their eyes still shone with wicked mirth.

"You may call me NicNevin. And I won't ask you again, boy."

Connall swallowed thickly. Lord MacGuffin's head still rested in his lap, breathing fitfully. He couldn't bare seeing his father like this, the strong and fearless Lord MacGuffin reduced to choking to death on his own blood. Connall shut his eyes and threaded his fingers in his father's hair as if he could pull him back from the grave. It wasn't fair- he had only just begun to grieve Niall and Shae. He couldn't do this, his clan couldn't, not now, not so soon-

"Your answer, boy."

Keeping his eyes squeezed shut, trembling all over, Connall felt himself nod. "Aye."

"Good. There are conditions naturally," she said. "Nothing in this world is free. I will expect something of you in return. If you wish for me to save a life, you must give your own life in service to me."

Connall grit his teeth. "I will pay the price an' nae ither, yi ken?"

Lady NicNevin inclined her head with something of a smile playing on her lips. "As you wish, Connall, bold son of MacGuffin. But in return you must agree not to speak of our agreement to another living soul. Do we have an understanding?"

Connall pause a moment, then nodded reluctantly. "Aye.."

Her dark eyes sparked with something hard and dangerous. "Then it is done. Hold on to your father's plaid. I warn you, if you let go before you wake, he will be lost to the both of us."

Connall gave another tight nod and shut his eyes as Lady NicNevin reached out her withered white hand toward them, but it wasn't before he felt the branches of her fingers reach over him to touch his father's brow, and then his own, that he pondered at her choice of words. _Lost to both of us..._

At the first prick of her nails, he felt a searing white hot pain lash through his temple. The world turned dark again. Connall decided he must have dreamed after that, because the first thing he became aware of was the wind whipping his loose hair and a velvety sky full of stars flying overhead. All around him was the sound of raucous laughter and wolves, hooves beating the air like a blacksmith's hammer, and arrows of lightning piercing the clouds as hill and wood rushed beneath his feet in a blur. He gripped his father by his plaid, letting the night wash over him until he slipped back into comforting darkness.

When he next woke, Connall found himself once again sitting astride his own dappled mare, Brigid. He was riding through a wide valley alongside an enclosed coach drawn by four wild boar. The moor and hillside didn't look at all familiar to him. White dusted the tops of the mountains surrounding them, but it wasn't snow but rain that lashed down in the valley.

A pained groan from behind suddenly him made him realise his father was sitting astride Brigid too, slumped over Connall's back. His heart soared.

"Dad?!"

"Ah feel like someone just bashed me o'er the head with a Yule log," Alastair grumbled.

Relief surged through him. Connall beamed from ear to ear and gripped his father's hand tighter to his chest, even though the slight movement made him wince all over. Now he could see the warm lights of Castle Dunbroch in the not too far off distance, glowing through the sheets of rain. He grinned. His father was alive. Injured, but alive. That was all that mattered.

 

 **oOo**  

**_Present_ **

  
A pervading silence ruled the castle now. The previous night's celebrations for Samhain seemed a lifetime ago. Somehow Connall found the King's mournful cries had been more bearable to the awful quiet permeating every hall and tower, nook and cranny. It was like the very brick and mortar was grieving, seeping into everything and swallowing the Bear King whole.

Connall watched the man, gravely. King Fergus sat slumped in his throne, staring into nothing. One of his dogs put its head in his lap, whining piteously, but Fergus gave no response. He looked so vulnerable, lost and utterly broken. The craggy landscape of his face, the laughter lines and vibrant eyes once full of wicked mirth, now only vaguely resembled the man he'd been.

Sitting on a bench beside Connall was wee Colin Dingwall, quietly fiddling with a fold of his plaid, a glassy far off look in his eyes. But Connall knew his friend well enough to know that behind that slightly moon-beamed expression the young man's brain was ticking over the events of the evening. Dougal, on the other hand, was anything but still. They watched him in mutual silence as the lanky lad flew about the main hall, occasionally breaking the silence like shattered glass and demanding answers from anyone he could find.

Finally, Connall's gaze turned to the three young Princes huddled together in a far corner of the Great Hall. Harris and Hubert sat slumped and staring into nothing, like mirror images of their father, while Hamish wept soundlessly beside them. Their nursemaid sat nearby, sobbing hysterically onto the shoulder of a large, broad shouldered clansman he recognised from Clan Dingwall.

For his part, Connall felt mostly numb. It felt like time had stopped and the air in his lungs had gone stale. Like Colin, he kept replaying the night's events. Like Dougal, he couldn't stop himself from fidgeting. The urge to do something too, _anything_ , was too great. The last words she had spoken to him kept going round and round in his head.

_"Yer just a coward."_

_"A big stupid stuttering coward to your core."_

_"You always will be."_

Idly he wondered how many times and how many ways one person could break your heart. But he'd take as many broken hearts as there were stars in the sky just to see Merida now, even if she still hated him and cursed his name to the Green Isle and back.

_"Mibbe ah'll come back later. Jist in case yeh need me."_

_"I won't."_

Connall hung his head between his knees, hating himself. Why had he ever left her alone? He knew he should have stayed, tried harder to make her understand. The logic he had used before seemed like a poor excuse now. The oath he had sworn to Lady NicNevin was a magic one and quite literally forbade him from speaking about their deal to another living soul. If he did, their deal would be forfeit and his father would die. Connall knew he could never have risked his own father's life, but maybe if he had been cleverer like Dingwall, or braver like MacIntosh, he could have found a way around their deal. He had wanted to tell Merida what had happened to him in the mountains, had wanted nothing than to spill his heart out at her door and tell her everything- that he had to make a deal with Lady NicNevin to save his father's life; that he was no match for NicNevin's magic; that he did not, had not, and never would love Miss Annis. Most of all, Connall wanted to tell her that even though he suspected Merida's heart belonged to another, he was happy to be her friend and ally when she needed one. Because Connall knew now with a gut wrenching certainty that he had never, not for one second, stopped loving her.

His hand went to breastbone to the place where he knew his charm hung beneath his under shirt, close to his heart, as it had done every day for the past five years. Hesitating a moment, Connall pulled it out by its worn blue string. The charm glinted dully in the candlelight as he turned it over in his fingers, but it gave him no comfort now.

He felt Colin Dingwall's large, curious gaze shift towards him, studying the charm in his hands with a small frown. Connall swiftly tucked it away, out of sight. He couldn't risk that the Colin wouldn't be able to work out what it was; what it meant to him.

He had to get out of the hall. He knew this wasn't right. For a moment he considered charging up the hill to Lady NicNevin's tent and demanding answers, for he was in no doubt the damned witch was involved in some way. His promise to Annis be damned, Connall knew this wasn't right. None of it was. He would find a way around his oath to NicNevin; another way to save his father's life, because right now he had to fix this. He had to speak to someone, to explain that he had been the one to find Merida's body; that he had felt the weight of her in his arms twice this past week and that the body he had found, curiously light as a straw doll, couldn't possibly be her's. And there was only one other person in the castle who just might believe him.

Dougal and Colin watched in surprise as Connall suddenly leapt to his feet, looking fiercely determined as he strode towards the stairs.

"And where d'yeh think _you're_ going?" Dougal asked, acidly.

Connall didn't answer him. He took the worn stone steps up to the castle's first level two at a time and didn't stop. Higher he climbed, past grieving servants and the skinny wee messenger Lachlan, whose eyes were bloodshot and shining with tears; through the winding corridors he remembered from Fergus's bear hunt through the castle all those years ago; higher still to the north facing tower which held the chamber he knew he would find the Queen in.

The men standing guard outside the Princess's chambers looked nothing short of alarmed as they looked up to see Young MacGuffin's massive frame striding boldly down the hall towards them. Connall knew he could cut a menacing figure when he wanted to. Hesitantly, the guards warned him to stop, raising their weapons to bar his passage, and were quickly batted them aside.

"Ma' Lady Queen!" Connall shouted as he tumbled through the door into the Princess's chamber, a cluster of baffled looking guards wrapped around his legs and arms in a desperate attempt to dissuade him. "Yi 'ave tae listen t' me- it isnae her, it's nae-"

Elinor rose calmly, raising a stately hand.

"I know, MacGuffin."

She looked down at the figure of her daughter lying on the bed. Frost covered Merida's lips and eyelashes, dusted her loose hair and dress. Her skin was a pale shade of blue. The sight of her like this made his heart ache.

Then Elinor said, "That's not my daughter."

  
**oOo**


	12. The Last Sheaf o' Harvest

 

**The Last Sheaf O' Harvest**

  
_'Winter of age which overwhelms everyone,_   
_Its first months have come to me.'_

 

**oOo**

 

“UCH! That bloody stupid bullheaded idiot Husband of mine!”

Elinor flew through the door into her daughter's chamber, red faced and loose hair flying behind her, like rage personified. Connall instinctively shrunk in on himself. He had spent enough time in the Queen's presence to know when to keep out of sight and sound.

“He refuses to listen to reason!” Elinor shouted at no one in particular, pacing the floor in front of the bed where Connall was dutifully keeping watch over Merida's body.

The body lay perfectly still and cold as ice to the touch as it had when Connall had first discovered it. Her hand lay in one of his giant paws, pale and small, and curiously light as a feather. Frost was spreading across her like lichen.

“I keep telling him to come here and check for himself, see with his own eyes - but he doesn't even acknowledge me. Hasn't left the library for three nights. The _library. Him!_ ” she spat, as if Fergus entering a library was the strangest part of all – which it was. _“_ He just sits at the hearth staring into the fire like a man possessed.” Her voice almost cracked at the end, but her eyes were like steel. She shot Connall a sharp, hard look. “You heed my words, boy: never get yerself a Husband.”

“Ah, uhm, ne'er intended tae, yer Majesty-”

“They're aw daft as a brush and not half as bloody useful!”

“A-Aye, yer Majesty.”

Elinor dropped herself into an armchair by the hearth and began to massage her temples. “Do please stop calling me that, MacGuffin, it's terribly vexing.”

Her eyes fell upon her daughter's still body on the bed, and softened. She seemed to sink into herself then. Her shoulders slumped and she scrubbed her face with cupped hands, sighing heavily. Connall felt for her. It was well past midday and she hadn't slept a wink all night. After he had filled her in on everything he was able to, Elinor had thrown on a fur cloak and ridden out to the old stone circle to assess the damage for herself. When she had returned, Elinor had found her husband in a near catatonic state and the whole castle in turmoil. They hadn't been able to stop word from spreading of the monstrous black worm that had attacked the King and his men, and now panic was setting in. Popular rumours and murmurings of a witch's curse were catching fire – that the Princess was not dead, but afflicted with sleeping sickness (the more romantic of the gossipers were calling on Young MacIntosh to wake her with a kiss). Underneath it all, Elinor could hear the first stirrings of anger and resentment.

_'This is Fergus's doing.'_

_'Never should'a messed wae a witch.'_

_'What did he expect? Now we'll_ _**all** _ _have to pay the price!'_

_'Aye, his daughter probably got off lightly.”_

Elinor supposed she should be thankful that the three Lords had kept well out of the gossip. Instead they had stayed dutifully close to Fergus, taking turns to watch over their grieving King. Despite their past quarrels and often strained ties, the four rulers were bound by a deep bond of friendship. It was heartening to see them instinctively put aside their differences and draw together, but she was lonely. Isolated. Elinor dropped her hands into her lap, wondering idly why she had never been capable of forging such a friendship for herself. More than ever, she wished she had a friend to turn to for support. Maudie was a dear old soul, but it was the woman's duty as nursemaid and head of staff to care for the royal family.

“Nessa, get me more hot water and some extra furs,” she ordered the young serving lady who had been bustling nervously around the hearth, keeping as far from the bed as possible. “We must keep Merida warm.”

Connall caught Nessa's alarmed gaze as it slid towards the Princess's body. Nonetheless, the servant girl nodded obediently with a curtsey and hastily disappeared through the door, a little too eager to leave the room.

“And tell Maudie to bring us up a little tea!” Elinor called after her. “Half portions!” For the first time she turned to look Connall in the eye. “We'll be on half rations for a while. With the clans taking refuge in Dunbroch and the destruction last night's storm brought, our stores will be runnin' low before long.”

“Ah kin go wi'out simthin' tae eat, M'lady,” said Connall. “Trith be telt, ah'm nae affa hungry.”

Elinor drew him a stern look. “I am not feeding you out of the kindness of my heart, MacGuffin. I can't have you flagging on me. I fear I'll need your strength before long. Panic and hunger are not good bedfellows.” She turned to look grimly out the window. “To be quite candid, I'm worried about what is to come.”

Connall was alarmed. “Ye dinnae think yer people will revolt, dae yi?”

Elinor didn't answer.

He turned his gaze back to Merida's body on the bed. Delicate frost laced up her arms and over her bodice, tattooing her lips with in its spidery silver hand. Connall had tried to brush it off, but the frost simply reformed moments later, glinting like diamond dust in the firelight. Maybe they _should_ call Dougal up here. Maybe he could wake her or bring her back; restore the life and weight, and warmth to her body again. Anything was worth trying.

Connall brought his right hand over to cover the top of Merida's where it still lay motionless in the palm of his left. Her skin was like ice, almost painful to the touch. He brought her fingertips to his mouth, blowing warm air onto them, soundlessly willing the heat to come back to them.

“That won't help.”

He gave a start and turned. Dark circles ringed Elinor's eyes, but they still managed to be perfectly intimidating.

“I already told you. That's not my daughter.” Her eyes hardened, suspiciously. “As well _you_ know.”

Nessa returned, sweeping into the room with a tray of bread, cheese and meats, and two cups of water. She nearly tripped on her way out again, casting furtive glances over her shoulder at Merida's body. The poor girl obviously didn't fancy sticking around for long. Connall frowned. The Queen was right; people were spooked. It had become apparent very quickly that no one other than the Queen and himself could see the fine frost covering her body from head to toe, growing thicker with every passing hour. Connall suspected more rumours were surely to follow regarding his sanity; not to mention the Queen's. He was used to mockery from the courts, but the idea of the dignified Lady Elinor, so renowned for her skills in diplomacy, having her sanity ridiculed and gossiped about was deeply unsettling.

Elinor quietly assessed the tray of food sitting on the stool between them. Without taking a morsel, she rose to her full height and walked briskly past the stool towards him. Connall felt himself shrink back into his chair again, but she stopped when she reached Merida's bed and took a seat on the edge. She laid one hand on her daughter's leg, but her fierce eyes were fixed on him.

“I suspect you have a role to play in this, MacGuffin. I haven't decided what role, precisely, but I am rarely wrong in these matters. Did you ken a woman can spot a guilty man a mile off?”

Connall felt his heart stop. “N-Naw, yer Majesty, ah didnae.”

“It's true,” Elinor continued, watching his reaction closely. “And you are looking awfully guilty to my eyes right now, Connall, son of MacGuffin. But guilty of _what_ I'm still not certain.” She leaned in. “It would spare us both a lot of time and effort if you would be good enough to explain for yourself.”

Connall desperately wanted to tell her, to spill everything, but Lady Nicnevin's curse held tight, like a vice around his throat that grew tighter the longer he tried to fight it. And what if he could? What then would become of his father? Lady Nicnevin, the witch the hags had called the Bone Mother, held Lord MacGuffin's fate in that evil hand of hers.

Elinor tipped her head slightly to the side and her eyes narrowed as he watched the conflict play out across Connall's face.

“Perhaps there is something you would like to tell me,” she pressed carefully, “but cannot. Is that correct?”

Connall tried to nod, tried to speak through his eyes, his hands, anything! But the vice was tightening around his throat. He could imagine it, that awful withered hand like silver birch wrapped around his throat, squeezing, _squeezing_ the life out of him. She could hear; he didn't know how, but he knew she was listening, watching. He let go over Merida's hand and pitched forwards over his knees. The room was starting to blur; it felt stiflingly hot, like he was trying to breathe through cotton. Then Connall felt a light touch on his shoulder. The gentle pressure of it anchored him and he looked up into the Queen's kind face.

“I'm sorry, MacGuffin. I did not mean to cause you injury. But I have to ask,” she said gently, pity in her eyes. “Am I right in thinking you cannot tell me the truth of what happened in the mountains? The circumstances behind the injury to yourself and Lord MacGuffin?”

Connall touched his temple gingerly. He still wore the bandages Merida had wrapped his head with. His heart flipped and clenched painfully; would he ever see her smile at someone again, the way she had smiled at him that night? Would he ever hear her throw her head back and roar with laughter, or tease him relentlessly for his odd turn of phrase, or put Dougal in his place for showing off, or lead them into some ridiculous misadventure?

The loss of her struck him again, but this time was joined by fury like none he had ever felt before. As it surged through him, he imagined it moving like a lightning bolt – an like an arrow fired by a steady arm and sure gaze. He pictured slamming into its target dead on, shuddering, bursting into flame. Then Connall felt something hiss and snap, releasing inside of him.

When he met the Queen's gaze, the room no longer felt hot and stuffy. His head felt lighter. The invisible hand of withered birch no longer gripped him by the throat. Now the only power stopping him from speaking was his own.

“My lady, ah'm no' a strong man an' ah've never been unca brave either.” He drew himself up and looked her firmly in the eye. “But ah am an honest yin. If ah could tell yi fit happened up on yon hills ah would dae so in a heartbeat. But tae break ma' promise now would forfeit my ane fither's life. That's somethin' a canna do.”

Elinor drew him an inscrutable look. “You realise if this secret you hold has anything to do with my daughter's predicament, your life will be forfeit.”

Connall nodded. “Aye. Ah ken. An' if it is, ah'll give it freely.” He glanced at Merida. “Ah'd never forgive ma'self if ah wis responsible fer this.”

“You care for my daughter?”

He looked at her, his eyes clear and steady. “Ah love her mair than there are stars in the sky.”

A thrill shot through him as he said it. It was the first time he had admitted his feelings for Merida out loud. Typical that it should come moments before his Queen sentenced him to death.

Elinor leaned back, seeming deep in thought. Connall resisted coiling back in on himself, even though his nerves were fraying like an old rag as he waited on her judgement.

At length, she nodded to herself and said, “I think there is something you should see.”

 

**oOo**

 

“Are you still wallowing in self-pity?”

The young heir of MacIntosh didn't respond. Dougal had draped himself along a window seat, the perfect picture of Gothic melancholy. His hair was artfully flopped across one side of his face so that only one soulful eye was visible, watching the graceful descent of the snowflakes as they came to land on the glass outside.

Colin wanted to kick him. “ _Well?_ ”

“Have you ever thought how tragic the life of a snowflake is?” He trailed one long finger down the glass, following the path of one melted flake until it pooled in one of the grooves of the latticed windows. “Each one perfectly unique. Each one a tiny wee miracle trickling down from a leaden sky. Flying, falling, fleetingly brief before melting into the dark abyss below...” Dougal sighed dramatically, shoulders slumping, but still retaining his tragic poise. “It makes yeh think, doesn't it?"

"Aye. It makes me think yer a twit," Colin muttered.

Dougal ignored him. "Every moment, every breath could be yer last. One minute yer a snowflake, flyin' free, the next-” He paused to waggle his lanky fingers at the melted flakes on the glass. “... _Poof._  Gone.”

Colin rolled his eyes. “Well you're definitely a snowflake.” From the corner of his eye he glimpsed a nearby group of girls sighing dreamily and complimenting Dougal among themselves on his profound turn of phrase. Colin crossed his arms and glared. He'd had enough. “Right, when are you gonnae quit this?”

Dougal turned, looking genuinely baffled. His eyes were red rimmed, but he wasn't a messy crier. His dark locks fell artfully in loose waves, adding to the romantic image of a heartbroken lover.

“Quit what?”

“This! ALL this!” He gestured with a sweeping hand at all of him. “Weeping over every dramatically set windae or archway yeh can find. Focusin' all the attention on yerself.”

“I'm not weeping dramatically." Dougal squared his shoulders defensively. “A man's allowed to grieve, ain't he?”

“Yer no' grieving,” Colin snapped. “Yer wallowin'. Making it all about yer big fat heid as per the norm.”

“How dare you!” Dougal pushed himself off the window seat and stormed towards the shorter man, towering over him. But Colin wasn't intimidated. He never was.

“She wasnae yer lover, _MacIntosh_ ,” Colin said acidly. “She was never yours.”

“Well I cannae help it if the whole world thinks she was!” Dougal shouted, exasperatedly, throwing his arms up in the air.

“Aye, but yeh let them tae think that. And yeh want them to think that now so you can lap up the attention so you dinnae have to confront your ane messy feelings for Merida.”

Dougal's eyes narrowed. “Don't you dare speak to me like that. Yeh have no idea – _no idea_  how I felt about her.”

But Colin wasn't backing down. Not this time. He had spent the last five years watching his friends dance around each other, trying to figure out who would bend first, who would take a chance, who was clever enough to figure out their feelings first, or bold enough to act. Now, it seemed, it was all for nought.

Colin had always considered himself intellectually apart from the group; a sort of bystander observing his allies for purely academic purposes. But he couldn't bare it; he couldn't keep watching this arrogant, clueless, puddock go on deluding himself, taking the easy way out without a care for whose heart he trampled on as he went.

“Yer no' dealing with grief, Dougal. Yer sweepin' it under the rug and distractin' yerself with other peoples pity. ' _Poor wee broken hearted MacIntosh,_ '”, he pantomimed in a high falsetto. “ _'How handsome he looks so deep in grief after his sweetheart's passin'_.”

“I swear to Dagda, if you don't stop-”

But Colin had no intention of taking orders. “ _'I bet I could warm his heart again – an' perhaps even his bed! That'll take his mind off things.'_ ”

Dougal lunged forward, grabbing the smaller man by his shirt with one hand, his other balled into a fist ready to land a punch, but before he could land a punch on the smaller man, three loud bangs reverberated around the castle walls like a clap of thunder. They glanced at each other, bemused.

Colin shot him one of his irritatingly dry looks. “Someone's at the door.”

With a disgusted snort, Dougal dropped him on the floor and marched off to see for himself. Dusting himself off, Colin followed at a lazy pace. By the time they were half way down the stairs into the Great Hall, the guards had opened the large oak doors. A sharp gust of icy wind rushed into the castle.

“Och for Dagda's sake, shut the bloody doors! It's baltic!” Dougal shouted through chattering teeth, hastily rubbing his goose-pimply bare arms to keep warm.

“What, are the three hairs on your chest no keepin' you warm?” said Colin, smirking.

“You shut it or-”

“ _Shh!_ ” Colin hushed him, holding out an arm to prevent Dougal from advancing further down the stairs. His attention was fully on the strange visitor at the door.

“Don't you shoosh me-” Dougal started, but stopped the moment his eyes caught sight of the figure at the entrance to the Great Hall.

A lady of near impossible height swept into the castle. Colin knew who she was long before she introduced herself, even though it was the first time either of them had encountered the infamous Lady Nicnevin. The experience of her was near hypnotic; there was a strange un-realness to the woman that was almost fourth dimensional, like being frozen on the knife edge border between sleep and awake. A black velvet cloak, trimmed at the collar with crow feathers and stitched all over with silver threaded stars, drifted behind her like the night sky.

The Lady acknowledged none but the three clan Lords who had hastily assembled on the threshold.

“My Lords,” she said with a cool tilt of her head. Her voice was like shards of glass hitting stone. “My gravest apologies for not announcing my presence more formally before now. But I am sure you have all become well acquainted with my daughter.” With a slight incline of her head she motioned to the girl lurking behind her.

Colin frowned. Was it just his eyes or did Miss Annis look a little less beautiful than he remembered? There was something rotten about the look she gave the folk clustered in the Great Hall; something monstrous in the way her teeth flashed when she grinned...

Lord MacIntosh exchanged a puzzled look with Dingwall, who shrugged his skinny arms before stepping awkwardly forward. None of the Lords looked entirely comfortable inviting a stranger into another man's home – least of all the King's castle. But with Fergus in his current catatonic state and Queen Elinor having locked herself away with her daughter's body, they didn't appear to have much choice. Denying any soul hospitality, even one so intimidating as Nicnevin and her motley host, was unthinkable in their realm.

“In the, er, absence of King Fergus, it's our pleasure tae welcome ye in tae Castle Dunbroch, Lady Knickers,” said Lord Dingwall.

“Nicnevin,” said the woman with a patient smile, though Colin noted the way it did not reach her eyes. “And it is the King who concerns me, Lord Dingwall. You see, I am a healer of sorts; renowned for my rare skill sets across a great many kingdoms.”

For the briefest of moments, Colin thought he spied the flicker of a smirk dash across Nicnevin's lips as her hard black eyes swept towards Lord MacGuffin. It was only then that Colin noticed the Lord had been particularly quiet. Odder still was the way his large fists were clenched in tight, white-knuckled balls at his sides. Like everyone else, Colin had been lead to believe Lord MacGuffin was as taken with Lady Nicnevin as his son was with Miss Annis. Now he wasn't so certain.

Without shifting her gaze from Lord MacGuffin, Nicnevin added pleasantly, “Word reached me of last night's tragic events. I have come to treat King Fergus for his affliction."

Lord Dingwall blinked. "His _whit_?"

"His brain fever," she clarified. "Without my services, your fair King's condition is likely to deteriorate. You see, there is a terrible storm coming, my Lords. And without his leadership, I fear the entire kingdom may perish."

 

**oOo**

 

Connall replayed the strange revelation the formidable Queen of Dunbroch had made to him, blinking rapidly.

“Hing on a wee minty,” he began slowly, running a hand through his fair hair and trying to get a handle on her words. “Yer really sayin' that _that_ ,” he motioned to Merida's body on the bed, “is a wee straw doll??”

Elinor gave him a hard look, sizing him up with her fearsome dark eyes. Connall felt himself go rigid under such an intensely scrutinising glare. Suddenly she stood, moving towards a small dresser on the far side of the room. When she returned, she was holding a plain handheld looking-glass, which she handed to Connall. He looked at it, perplexed, but the Elinor only nodded him on.

“Hold it above her,” she directed.

Nervously, Connall did as he was told, holding the slender stem of the looking-glass above Merida's body. The image it reflected gave him such a start he almost dropped it with a yelp. Merida was nowhere to be found in the reflection. Instead, a small corn doll sat in the centre of the bed, a familiar coil of brilliant red hair wrapped neatly around its waist like a sash.

Silently, Elinor went to the fire, leaving Connall rooted to the floor in disbelief. His gaze kept darting from Merida's body on the bed to the reflection of the corn doll in the looking-glass, waiting for some trick to be revealed. Finally he placed the looking-glass down.

Elinor was sitting at the hearth without a care for soot on her fine dress. Not that soot would dare come near the Queen. She had the kind of effortlessly regal countenance that Connall imagined could deter dirt through willpower alone. Truth be told, he'd always been a little afraid of her. And rightly so, he figured; after all this was a woman who had faced down Mor'du by herself.

But to his surprise and embarrassment, he realised the Queen now had tears in her eyes. Connall shuffled his feet awkwardly; he felt like he was intruding on a private moment, but Elinor pointed to the empty space across from her.

“Please, sit.”

Connall nodded and joined her hesitantly, sitting cross legged at the other end of the hearth from where she kneeled, stoking the fire with an iron poker.

“It's an old spell,” Elinor said when he was settled. “I remember it from the tales my grandmother told me.” She gave a wry little quirk of her lips that it reminded him of Merida. “Tales about the old ways. About the Cailleach.”

He nodded. “Ah ken the custom wi' corn dolls - the last sheaf cut at harvest is made into a wee dollie tae stave aff the Lady O' the Cald.” He gestured to Merida's frozen body on the bed, bemused. “But I dinna' ken fit that has t' dae wi' Merid- ah mean, the _Princess's_ state.”

Elinor put the iron poker aside and drew herself up a little straighter. “When I was a wee lass my grandmother was maddeningly superstitious. She'd never dream of allowing an odd number to sit at a table and woe betide anyone who let a cat near a sleeping child.”

Connall laughed at that. “Aye, my ane mither used tae say the same. Said a cat wid suck the verra breath out a wee bairn's mouth.”

“Hmm. I suppose it's a good thing that that husband of mine is a dog person,” Elinor replied sniffily, then leaned in with a conspiratorial grin. “Do you know my mother once caught my grandmother feeding me fried mice to cure my small-pox?”

“Whit?! She never did!”

“Young man, a Queen never lies,” Elinor said with a grin. “She also swore blind that whooping cough could be cured by whatever was recommended by a man riding a piebald horse.”

They laughed so hard until there were tears in their eyes. It was a relief to let off a bit of the tension they had been carrying around. Connall was especially relieved to see the Queen smiling again. The grief and weariness hung off her like thick cobwebs, but her laughter was genuine as she dipped back into the memories of her youth; seemed to ease her bone-deep fatigue, if only a little. Connall knew it wouldn't last long. As their laughter subsided, he waited patiently for her to tell the rest of her story.

“She was a strict old woman, my Grandmother. Proud as a mountain and stubborn to boot. It never mattered how many times I pleaded for my own doll, she never gave in. You see, she believed that wandering spirits are drawn to hollow objects. Dolls in particular, for obvious reasons. Their human shapes and hollow bodies deceive restless souls into thinking they have found a new body to inhabit." She glanced over her shoulder at the bed where her daughter lay.

Connall followed her gaze. “Yer sayin' the Princess's spirit is trapped in the corn doll?”

Elinor's shoulders rounded inwards and her eyes glassy. She tried to blink the threatening tears away. “I...I don't know. Trapped or, or bound to it, but where she is or how she got there I-” Her shoulders trembled and she brought her hand to her mouth, hiccuping back a sob. Connall laid a hand on her shoulder as she struggled to continue. “The last thing Merida told me- the last thing I ever heard her say was that she knew what gave the storm its power... That-” her voice shook, “it had something to do with the stone I broke to kill Mor'du. Which means I-”

“It isnae yer fault.”

Elinor looked up through wet eyelashes, surprised at the uncharacteristic authority in the young MacGuffin's voice. He gave her shoulder a firm squeeze.

“Ah ken it might seem like it's a lang road that's no fir turnin',” said Connall, giving her a knowing smile, “but if any lass can carve oot a new path, it's that fine quine of yours.”

The Queen smiled weakly, delicately wiping the corners of her eyes. “That's all very well, but Merida said the only person with the power to help is the Bear Witch.” From her sleeve, she procured a small round earring with a crudely cut triskelion carved into its centre. “I tried to look for her.”

“Intae the mirk wid? By yerself??” Connall exclaimed, both surprised and impressed.

“Aye. This is all that was left of her.” She dropped the earring into the fire. They watched in silence as the flames coiled around the trinket, engulfing it fully. “Now we have nothing. No hints, no clues to where my daughter might be.” A trembled went through her voice again. “I don't know what to do.”

“Och dearie, do dry yer eyes out,” a new voice crackled throughout the chamber. “If yeh start snivellin' over here you'll put me out! Then we'll all be in a right tizzy.”

Elinor and Connall shared a panicked look and rapidly spun around, two pairs of eyes scanning the chamber for the source of the unfamiliar voice. But the chamber was definitely empty, save for the corn doll disguised as Merida lying perfectly still and cold on the bed.

“Down here yah pair o' dunderheids,” the voice grumbled. “Honestly, these are the heroes ah have tae deal with nowadays. Morrigan have mercy!”

The Queen of Dunbroch shared another wary look with the young Lord beside her, before turning back towards the fireplace. There in the centre of the flames, bobbing quite contentedly, was the disembodied head of the Bear Witch.

The old woman grinned toothily. “Lovely evening, isn't it?”

Connall and Elinor screamed.

 

 

**oOo**

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Working on my first Brave fic for Nano. :D Please find me on tumblr at weasley-detectives for fic art!


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